The Visitation (27 page)

“I was wondering if you might have a few minutes?”

Nancy looked down at her desk. “Um . . . I guess so.” He approached her as if he would offer his hand. She nodded toward the chair. “Have a seat.” He veered to the chair, his hat in his hands. She sat at her desk and put on a business smile. “Well, I never expected to see you come in here.”

He smiled. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” she replied, taking it as flattery. She was wearing a loose knit blouse and jeans, something appropriate enough for the office, but not striking.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The reason I came is, first of all, to thank you for your fair and understanding treatment of everything we’ve been trying to do. Obviously, it’s easy to be misunderstood by the public at large and by the press, but I think your reporting on our efforts has been a credit to your paper and a good boost for the town.”

“It’s been interesting. Exciting. But do you mind if I ask you, where’s the money coming from to pay for all this labor and material?”

“Donations. A lot of the folks who’ve come to the ranch had money but no purpose in life. Now they have a vision to embrace, something worthwhile to invest in.”

“Which is?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you fixing up the town? What’s the purpose?”

He smiled, a dreamy look in his eyes. “Maybe it’s to get as close as we can to heaven on earth, a clean and lovely place for the spiritually seeking. And the work itself is a healing salve in people’s lives. It gives them the ability to create change with their own hands and resources. In today’s world that means a lot.”

“I suppose a cleaner, brighter town would enhance
your
marketability.” “It would be good for
everyone
.”

“Okay.”

“But . . .” He nervously rubbed his hands together. “What I said about the spirit of the town . . . that’s another reason I’m here. If I may, I’d like to speak up on Kyle Sherman’s behalf.” She made a curious face. “I know that he tends to be a little blunt—”

“A little?”

He chuckled and flipped his hands palms up. “Well, you know and I know . . .”

“We know.”

“But I didn’t come to Antioch to divide people. Mine is a mission of peace and brotherhood, and given time, I have hopes that Kyle Sherman and I can work things out.”

“That’s a lot of hope.”

He gave a little shrug. “Well. We have to start somewhere. I’ll go first.”

“So you didn’t care for my editorial?”

He slid his chair closer and lowered his voice a little. “It was brilliant, almost surgical in its precision. But it was cutting.”

“No pun intended?”

He laughed, gazing at her. “Oh, perhaps intended.”

She felt his eyes on her, but tried to quell the uncomfortable feelings that assaulted her. Of
course
he was looking at her. They were
talking
. “Um. . . I felt that Reverend Sherman was trying to bar you from the neighborhood on purely religious grounds, and from where I view history, that’s something we’ve seen too much of already.”

“Oh, I agree. It’s people that matter, not what they believe.”

“So are you Jesus Christ?”

He chuckled. “It depends on who you ask. People who wish to believe that may do so.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They just don’t.”

She leaned toward him. “I want to know who you are
really
.”

“Brandon Nichols, ranch hand from Missoula.”

“Who used to work at the Harmon ranch?”

There was the slightest pause before he answered, “That’s right.”

“I talked to the Harmons. They say you worked there for five years. Why’d you quit?”

“It was time to move on.”

“They never saw you do any miracles, either. What changed? First you’re in Missoula herding cattle and horses and the next thing anyone knows, you’re in Antioch acting like Jesus.”

He smiled knowingly. “At first, Jesus was a carpenter in Nazareth, and the next thing anyone knew, he was preaching in synagogues and turning water into wine.”

“Got any family anywhere?”

He slid his chair closer. “I can see we have a lot to talk about. We should get together for lunch sometime, or perhaps dinner at the ranch. I’d feel freer to discuss such things”—he reached out his hand—“if there weren’t other people around.”

She had a pencil in her hand. She held it out to intercept his hand gently. “Could you do me a favor? I’d like you to refrain from touching me.”

He withdrew his hand and leaned back in the chair. “Certainly.” “I’ve seen what happens when you touch people. Brett Henchle’s never been the same.”

He seemed pleased at her observation. “No, he certainly hasn’t, nor have the hundred or so others I’ve touched. But what I’ve done for individuals I want to do for the whole town. This town needs a special touch and I hope to provide that over the weeks and months ahead.”

“Where are you from originally?”

“You mean, before Missoula?”

“That’s right. Where were you born? Where’d you grow up?”

“It’ll cost you dinner with me.”

He was smiling at her, waiting for an answer. Something in his eyes chilled her.

She called, “Kim?” Kim looked up. “Let’s get a picture of Mr.

Nichols to go with our story.”

“Sure thing.” Kim reached for her camera.

Nichols was on his feet. “Not today.”

“C’mon,” Nancy prodded, “it’ll only take a second.”

“The dinner invitation is still open. Call me at the ranch.”

He turned and hurried through the store and out the door.

Kim stood with her camera, eyebrows high with surprise. “Wow.”

“Like Superman and kryptonite,” said Nancy.

“Was he . . . hitting on you?”

“Aw. . .” Nancy turned to her desk. “I could never prove it to anybody.”

Kim stood there, waiting.

“Yes, he was,” Nancy finally answered, and by now she was shuffling through papers and yellow post-it notes trying to find a phone number. Ah, there it was. Nevin Sorrel, Mrs. Macon’s lanky, former hired hand, had said he had something very serious to tell her about Brandon Nichols. At the time he called, Nancy wasn’t interested in gossipy stuff from a resentful semiliterate, but she was seeing things a little differently now.

AS FOR WHAT
Morgan Elliott was thinking, I hadn’t heard—that is, until she called and asked to see me, which was the last thing I expected. I’d mostly been friends with her late husband, Gabe, and apart from the ministerial meetings, hadn’t seen much of Morgan after his death. Considering my reputation with the open-minded, liberal, and tolerant faction of the ministerial—and her apparent alignment with that camp—it seemed best to steer clear of her anyway.

Well, so much for that. What she wanted to see me about I had no idea, but I now had an official, three o’clock appointment with Pastor Elliott. I arrived promptly, parked in front of the Methodist church, and went through the big double doors. A lady in jeans was mopping the floor in the foyer and told me yes, the pastor was in her office, located at the front of the sanctuary, through a door just to the right of the chancel.

I’d forgotten how classy this old church was, and enjoyed my short walk down the center aisle. This was a building in the old tradition, dark stone on the outside, fancy woodwork and plaster on the inside, with a high, vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows. The pews were stout and hand-carved, the deep red cushions a later improvement. The original floorboards under the carpet had been squeaking in the same places for decades, and overhead were the black iron chandeliers that came by ship and rail from England in 1924—Gabe told me all about it.

The door to the pastor’s office was open and I could see Reverend Morgan Elliott seated at her desk in a dark suit, white blouse, and dark blue scarf. Her long, curly hair was pinned back today and she was working intently, her round glasses perched on the end of her nose. Feeling some anxiety, I knocked gently on the doorjamb. She looked up and smiled, and then she stood, extending her hand. “Hi. Please come in.”

I shook her hand and took the chair facing her desk. I had no idea how I should conduct myself: As a friend? A neighbor? A fellow professional? Maybe a condemned heretic. I’d just have to wait and see.

“So how in the world are you?” she asked, setting aside her work and then resting her chin on her fingers.

“Doing all right.” It was a comfortable, generic kind of answer. “How about yourself?”

She didn’t answer quickly, and her answer wasn’t comfortable for either of us. “I have some things I need to talk with you about.”

Uh-oh. I once had a vice principal who said exactly those words in exactly that tone of voice. Not knowing whether to expect a chat or a lecture, I ventured, “This is kind of unusual, you and I having a meeting.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m taking a chance that I’ve read you correctly. If I had this meeting with anyone else, I’d get a party line, predictable answer or no answer at all. But you seem to be in a different place right now.”

“A different place?”

She cocked her head to one side and gave an apologetic smile. “You faced down Armond Harrison in front of the whole ministerial. You organized a picket protest outside the theater when they showed an X-rated movie. You led a March for Jesus down the highway through town. You were pastoring Antioch Pentecostal Mission long before Gabe and I got here, and we always knew what to expect from you.”

I caught her point. “Things have changed a little.”

“I’m guessing you’re on the outside. Things have to look different from out there. Do they?”

I stared at her, off-balance.

“Do they?” she asked again.

I knew the answer, but I was dumbfounded to hear Morgan Elliott asking the question. “Yes. They do. Things look a lot different. Not always in focus, but definitely different.”

“Then maybe we can compare notes. Things are starting to look different to me too, and I’m not sure what to do about it.” She looked at the ceiling and squinted as if seeing something in the distance. “I have this picture in my mind. I’m eighteen, getting ready to leave home, and I’m standing out in the yard in front of my parents’ house in San Jose. I’ve got clothes in a big duffel bag and a guitar in one of those cheap cardboard cases, and I’m leaving, heading out on my own. But I’m looking back toward the front door, and my folks and my brother and sister are standing there, calling to me, beckoning, telling me to come back inside. ‘You don’t belong out there, come back inside, you need to stay here.’” She stopped abruptly and asked, “Does any of this sound familiar?”

Maybe. “Is there more?”

She looked away, replaying the scene in her mind. “Part of me wants to go back. I mean, it was home. It was secure. I liked living with my folks. It’s not like I was rebellious.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But somehow, I . . .” Abruptly, she reached for a yellow legal pad on her desk. “Maybe we can talk about that later.” She nervously consulted a list she’d scribbled on the yellow pad. “I’ve been wracking my brain all morning—well, for several days, actually— and I’ve narrowed down the topics to three: My church and I aren’t getting along; Brandon Nichols isn’t Jesus . . .” That was two. I sat there waiting. She sighed, looked at the wall, built up her nerve, and gave me the third: “Michael the Prophet is my son.”

I didn’t react. I couldn’t. I had to hear her say that again. “Excuse me?”

She looked directly at me. She even leaned into it. “Michael the Prophet—you know, that crazy guy with the shawl and the staff and the cut-off jeans—”

“And the phony British accent.”

“That’s the one. Michael is my son. Michael Elliott.”

Slowly, jarringly, the memory dawned. “I remember you and Gabe talking about Michael. But I never met him.”

“He didn’t come to Antioch with us. He’d left home by then, and had started his, his wanderings. We got lots of letters and calls, but he never came home again. He had to be . . .
out there
. He took in about a year of college, then traveled to India to discover himself and got dysentery. On the way back, he had himself baptized in the Jordan River. He’s, well, he’s searching.”

“And now he’s found Brandon Nichols.”

She gave a slow, painful nod. “He thinks Brandon Nichols is Jesus. He told me that to my face.”

I didn’t mean to smile. “And you have a problem with that?”

She huffed in frustration. “Isn’t that the limit? I guess I’m upset because he’s my son.”

Now
that
was fascinating. “Huh.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

I hesitated to say it.

“Go on.”

“Well, we have heard it said that love means you don’t question or challenge another person’s beliefs. But now we have a case in which, because you truly love someone, you don’t want them to be deceived.”

“Exactly.”

“So it matters to you what they believe.”

“And therefore I’m upset that Brandon Nichols is deceiving my son.”

“How intolerant of you.”

She nodded. “How
very
intolerant.” She rested back in her chair, strong emotions just under the surface. “But I know—I
know
—that Brandon Nichols isn’t Jesus, and if he isn’t Jesus, then someone else must be, and I’m very sorry we never told Michael. Pardon me for baring my soul, but I’m haunted by the thought that he believes in Brandon Nichols because there was nothing for him to believe in at home.”

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “Brandon Nichols isn’t Jesus, and someone else is.”

She said with a flourish, “
Thank you
for saying so.”

We were eye to eye across that desk. “So things are looking different now?”

She drew a deep breath and stared into the past. “I
was
comfortable. I had my ministry, my little bag of pet beliefs and nonbeliefs, my own congregation of followers. But now I can’t sit still. I can’t rest. I’m like my son.” She met my eyes again. “I want to know something for sure. Very radical idea, I know. And they—some of the people in my congregation; the old guard, the pillars, the heavy givers—don’t want me to look. They’re afraid of my asking. They like the old Morgan, the cheerful little lady who smiled and made them feel good and never ventured further than these four walls.” She added with a bitter note, “The one who preached so much but said so little.
They
like Brandon Nichols.
They
don’t see anything wrong with him—just like Michael!” She halted. Her eyes glistened with tears.