The Visitation (53 page)

I pulled over at a service station to top off the tank and check the yellow pages of a phone book. As I flipped the phone book open, I was praying for help and guidance. I could feel butterflies in my stomach.

Churches, churches . . .

I would know it when I saw it. It wouldn’t be Catholic, Methodist, Lutheran, or Baptist. I was guessing it would be—how shall I say it?—hyper-Pentecostal. Judging from Justin Cantwell’s bitterness and the reception I got from the Reverend Ernest Cantwell, it would be stridently, strictly, inflexibly, legalistically, pharisaically Pentecostal. There would be a long list of complex, tangled, sometimes contradictory, often hypocritical, but absolutely essential requirements and taboos defining what it meant to be a Christian. I was familiar with that kind of church and glad I never had to attend one. I was guessing that Justin Cantwell did.

My finger stopped on a promising possibility: The Nechville Church of the True Gospel.

“Good morning and praise God,” said the cheerful male voice. “True Gospel.”

“Hi. What time is your service this morning?”

“Sunday school’s at nine forty-five and morning worship’s at eleven.”

“Is Pastor Cantwell preaching?”

“Oh, absolutely. You can’t hold him back. Think you can join us?” “I’ll be there.”

“Well you’re gonna hear the truth. That’s what we’re all about. And your name is?”

I said “Thanks a lot” cheerfully and hung up. They’d picked the right guy to answer the phone. If I were them, I sure wouldn’t want the pastor doing it.

I checked my watch. It was just before ten, so I had an hour. I asked the man at the cash register how I might find the church and he drew me a map. Then I returned to my car and drove through town in no particular hurry. I didn’t want to attend Sunday school because I’d be sitting in the adult Sunday school class where I’d have to introduce myself to everyone else, and most likely Reverend Cantwell would be teaching. I wanted a chance to get a feel for the place first. Now
I’d
be the timid visitor sitting in the back.

What happened next had to be the gentle, guiding hand of God. I was driving by a quaint, wide-porched home on Main Street and spotted a sign in the yard: H. K. Sullivan, M.D. I got a hunch, I felt in my spirit that I should stop, and so I did.

Parked across the street, I took a moment to rethink it. I didn’t know how many doctors were in this town, probably not many. Whenever and however Justin Cantwell got those scars on his arms, this doctor might know about it, or perhaps know the doctor who did. There was a car in the driveway. I thought I saw someone in the backyard. It couldn’t hurt to knock on the door and ask.

DR. HOWARD SULLIVAN
was in his seventies, dressed in work jeans and a tee shirt advertising Imodium A–D. He sat beside Mrs. Sullivan on their couch while I sat opposite them, waiting for the doctor’s verdict on the photographs I’d handed him.

“So now he’s claiming to be Jesus,” he muttered.

“He’s allowing people to believe and say that about him,” I qualified.

The doctor laid the photos out side by side on the coffee table, studying them. His wife held his arm, her eyes troubled.

“There’s a whole lot I could tell you about him, but I can’t.”

I closed my eyes and sighed in disappointment and frustration.
Don’t be rude
, I reprimanded myself. “You do understand my situation?”

He nodded. “I sure do. More than you think. And I want to help you, but I can’t tell you anything without the Cantwells’ consent. That’s just the way I do things.”

“Is his name Justin Cantwell?”

The doctor nodded. “I can tell you that. Yes.”

“Was he ever a patient of yours?”

The doctor nodded again but said nothing.

“Did you treat the wounds in his forearms?”

I didn’t get a response. Mrs. Sullivan pulled her husband’s arm and said, “I don’t think you’d better go any further.”

“I did,” said the doctor.

“Honey, now that’s all!” she warned him, and then she told me, “This is a small, close-knit little town and we watch out for our neighbors. If we violated any trust, we wouldn’t survive here.”

“Talk to the Cantwells,” said the doctor, picking up the photos and handing them to me. “Please. I
want
to help you. I
want
to bring this whole sad story to a close.”

“They’ll be in church pretty soon,” said Mrs. Sullivan, looking at the mantel clock. “That would be a good place to meet them.”

“He’d have to behave himself in front of his congregation.”

She jabbed him. “Honey!” Then she told me, “You may not get far with Pastor Cantwell, but I think Mrs. Cantwell will be sympathetic. Work on her if you can.”

“All I need is their consent. I need to hear from them that I can talk to you.”

“It’s the Church of the True Gospel, is that right?”

“Over on Dunbar Street, two blocks down, turn left, three blocks on the right.”

IT WAS AN OLD BRICK BUILDING
with thick concrete steps and a blue neon “JESUS SAVES” sign bolted to the top of the facade. Worshipers were gathering, moving from the gravel parking lot, approaching from either direction on the sidewalk, dressed in their Sunday best, toting their Bibles. It might mean different things to different folks in different parts of the country, but, for these people in
this
part of the country, they looked very religious.

I was parked across the street. I checked my tie in the rearview mirror—it was black; very safe. I ran a comb through my hair— recently cut, with ears and collar uncovered. I’d already given my face a once-over with a small travel razor. I had a suit coat ready on a hanger and a good-sized Bible on the seat. Hopefully, I would look righteous enough not to disturb anyone.

I stepped out of my car, slipped into my suit coat, straightened and adjusted everything, and crossed the street, returning whatever smile or greeting came my way. The piano and organ were already playing the prelude. I followed the other folks up the front steps. Passing through the door, I noticed a yardstick tacked to the doorpost for measuring the height of hemlines. I’d heard about that practice, but this was the first time I had actually seen it.

Being a Pentecostal, I gravitate toward the livelier kind of worship. I’m not a dancer, jumper, or roller, but I like a good tune, a catchy rhythm, and lyrics that express how I feel about my Savior. This church had them. The worship was great—a little protracted and repetitious for my taste, but nobody else seemed to mind, so neither did I. The young fellow leading worship did plenty of jumping, and when he spoke I recognized the cheerful voice I’d heard on the telephone.

But I wasn’t prepared for the pastor, the haggard, graying wraith sitting in a wheelchair on the platform. He clutched a huge Bible in blue-veined, seemingly palsied hands and glared at everyone. Sure, he smiled frequently, raised his hands in praise, sang the songs, and shouted Hallelujah, but his eyes never lost that steely glare and he never lost that weird hunch either, like a buzzard perched in a dead snag waiting for his next meal to die. This was Reverend Ernest Cantwell? This was Justin’s daddy? I had food for thought already.

They went through announcements and some testimonies, and then it was the reverend’s turn to preach. When he raised his arms to grip and propel his chair wheels, I saw that big buzzard again, ruffling his wings, ready to fly. He wheeled up to a specially made, lowered pulpit, set his big Bible on it, and then gaffed our attention with those eyes.

“I would that you were either cold or hot,” he began, and I recognized the voice I heard on the telephone, a coarse, ragged, booming voice you didn’t trifle with, slurring the words. “But since you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth!”

“Amen,” they said. “That’s right.”

“The axe is already laid to the roots, and every plant that does not bear fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire!”

“Save us, Lord! Amen.”

“I looked throughout the nation for a righteous man, and I found none! There was none righteous, no, not one, and my anger was kindled against my people and it repented me that I had made them and set them on a hill, but woe to them, for now that hill will be brought low!”

“Amen!”

“So come out, my people! Come out from among them and be ye separate, for great is their destruction, and their destruction is nigh at hand, and the smoke of their destruction shall go up like the smoke of a furnace forever and ever!”

The locomotive started rolling, leaving the station, gaining speed . . .

“Our nation is ripe for judgment!”

“Amen!”

“Our towns and our cities are ripe for judgment!”

“Amen!”

“The church is ripe for judgment!”

“Yes!”

“And
you
are ripe for judgment!”

“Amen! That’s right!”

“Did you hear me? I said
you
are ripe for judgment!”

“Lord save us!”

“
You
are ripe for judgment!”

“Amen!”

“I said
YOU
are ripe for judgment!”

With a steady, pounding cadence he went down the universal list of vices, added a few of his own—sports on Sunday and cable TV—and condemned them all. He warned the President, he warned Congress, he warned Hollywood, and he warned the game shows and soap operas. He dealt in depth with the horrible things God had planned for sinners like us and told us he’d learned how hot hell was—at least ten times the heat of a nuclear blast, the difference being, it lasts and lasts. With help from the song leader he took off his suit coat and then wiped the sweat from his brow. He kept going, hot and heavy, wheeling from one side of the platform to the other, his weak and faulty arms swatting invisible bees, his voice bouncing off the walls.

For forty minutes he scared the bejeebers out of us, and when our terror of God and judgment had reached just the right level, he brought Jesus into it, rolling along at such a clip that “Jesus” was “Jesus-uh” and “judgment” was “judgment-uh.” The place was rocking with the rhythm of his words: He’d say it, we’d answer; he gave it, we took it; he shouted, we praised; back and forth, back and forth, yea and Amen. Finally, he gave the invitation and folks began moving to the altar to pray as Sister Cantwell, white-haired and serene, softly played “Almost Persuaded” on the organ.

So this was Sister Lois Cantwell. I had to wonder about her. She seemed so gentle, so small, such a contrast to the fiery, rough-hewn reverend. She was dark-skinned too, probably of Hispanic or Native American descent. Recalling Mrs. Sullivan’s advice, I thought I might approach her first.

I got my chance as the service ended and the refreshed and rededicated saints filed out. “Sister Cantwell?”

She was still seated at the organ, just saying good-bye to a sister in the Lord. She extended her hand. “Hello. And you are?”

“Travis Jordan. I was wondering if I might have a word with you and your husband?” I dropped a hint. “I’m from Antioch, Washington.” That didn’t faze her. “My, you’re far from home, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So what brings you here?”

I braced myself, lowered my voice, and said, “Justin Cantwell.”

That did faze her. She placed her hand over her heart and I thought she’d stopped breathing. “Who are you?”

“I’m Travis Jordan,” I repeated. “I’m a schoolteacher from Antioch, Washington. I was also a minister in the Pentecostal Mission church for over fifteen years.”

“Have you seen my son?” she nearly whispered.

“Yes, I have. He’s in Antioch. We’ve visited on many occasions.”

She was obviously starving for news, any news. “Is he all right? What’s he doing?”

“Hello!” With a booming, gravelly, slurred voice, the reverend rolled up. “Ernest Cantwell!” He offered his bent, half-limp hand.

“And who might you be?”

“Travis Jordan,” I said, knowing his toothy smile was going to vanish the moment I said more.

Sister Cantwell said it first. “He knows our son.” The reverend seemed perplexed. She further clarified, “Justin.”

The smile vanished and that glare intensified. “So what are you doing here?”

With my eyes I indicated that other people were still around.

“Is there someplace we could talk privately?”

“What about?”

“About Justin,” his wife whispered with a plea in her voice.

“Conway!” the reverend hollered, and a man near the door immediately turned our way. He was big and had those cold, animal eyes required of any good tavern bouncer.
Oh brother
, I thought,
I’m going to get thrown out of here.

“Ernest . . .” Sister Cantwell pleaded.

Reverend Cantwell spun his chair around and started wheeling toward the center aisle, zigzagging between folks visiting and praying. “Conway, open up the office. We have to meet with this, this, whatever he is.”

I stood there. Sister Cantwell gave me a gentle touch on the arm, prodding me. “Please.”

I weaved past the petitioning saints and down the center aisle with Sister Cantwell right behind me and Conway the bouncer dead ahead. He had opened a door on the left side of the foyer and now stood there while the reverend wheeled inside. I followed the reverend, and the reverend’s wife followed me.

We were in the pastor’s office. He wheeled himself behind his desk and hollered to Conway from there, “You want to hang around, Conway? I might need you.”

Conway nodded a slow, insider’s kind of smile, and closed the office door as a sheriff would close a jail cell.

“Have a seat,” said Cantwell.

His wife already occupied one of the two available chairs. I planted myself in the other, my Bible and valise in my lap.

The reverend glared at me a moment, then at his wife, then snapped at me with a flicker of his hand, “So, speak!”

I reached into my valise and pulled out the photos and news clippings again. This was getting to be a routine. I passed the photos to Mrs. Cantwell, explaining who I was, where I was from, and what was going on up there—and how a young man had come to town acting like some kind of new, improved messiah. At first sight of the photos, Mrs. Cantwell gasped, her hand over her mouth. Tears filled her eyes.