The Glass Is Always Greener (7 page)

Chapter 8

C
.J. was still beaming half an hour later when we got to the Tabernacle of Joy Through Giving. It wasn’t just that we had run into someone from her past—a cousin no less—but his brutish nature aside, this man was rather normal. Sure, it was a reference to owning a horse with no mouth that made it possible for him to recognize her, but if we’re really honest about it, we’ve all had experiences every bit as bizarre. Haven’t we?

Thus it was that when we entered the sanctuary she was at her most socially acceptable level of behavior, if I might use that term. I’d even go so far as to say that we were virtually indistinguishable from any other of the worshippers. We both were decked out in polyester flowered dresses with high necklines and distressingly low hemlines (for a shrimpette like me, at any rate). We both tied the frocks in back, but loosely, so as not to accentuate our provocative feminine attributes. Our sleeves were supposed to come down to our elbows, but in my case, they reached almost to my wrists. We even pinned our hair atop our heads, and fastened tightly rolled falls above our crowns to simulate “holy roller” buns.

I was wearing one extra element of disguise, one that I am ashamed to admit to possessing. Just about a month prior, my optometrist, a pleasant presbyopic Presbyterian, had given me a prescription for bifocals. It was hard to adjust to the darn things, and I usually kept them in my purse, but now was as good a time as any to give them the old college try.

But sad to say, I hadn’t been to church in a long while—certainly not one as conservative as Pastor Sam’s—so I’d plumb forgotten that we would have done well to bring our own Bibles as part of our illusion. This omission of detail earned us both looks of mild suspicion, and in C.J.’s case, an all too firm handshake. When the big gal winces, the game is on.

“Good morning, sisters,” the deacon who greeted us said. “Where are y’all from?”

“We’re from the Holy City,” C.J. said without missing a beat. And indeed, the Holy City is a popular name for South Carolina’s largest metropolis, on account of the plethora of churches to be found there.

“Well, I doubt that,” the man said with a chuckle. “Youse look like lovely ladies, but real angels is men.” His accent, by the way, marked him as a former Bostonian to my ears; that would explain his lack of Carolina knowledge.

“Why bless your heart,” I said, as I snatched up a Sunday morning bulletin from a stack by the door and sailed right on past.

As soon as C.J. could disengage from the iron grip of doubt, she joined me in the very front pew. Experience has taught me that these seats are the last to fill up in an ecclesiastical venue. After all, nobody wants the preacher to glance down during his sermon and spot that you have fallen asleep or, worse yet, are the one whispering dating advice to her BFF in a stage whisper. Today, however, I suppose it would be texting and tweeting that would get you into hot water.

At any rate, the service started right on the dot. From somewhere far to our rear a great organ pealed. After a few stirring notes, a youthful worship minister, dressed in an expensive suit and Ferragamo loafers, ran out to the center of the stage.

“Put your hands together for Jesus!” he cried.

The response was both invigorating and deafening. For the next half hour we clapped, swayed, and sang ourselves into a spiritual frenzy. Only then did Pastor Sam make an appearance and, in keeping with the mood that had been created, it was no ordinary entrance.

First, two very young boys (perhaps no older than six) ran across the stage carrying red pendants. Abruptly the music stopped. Three very buff young men (possibly in their twenties) materialized suddenly from either side. They wore only white loincloths and carried long-stemmed trumpets, upon which they played a single triumphant note.

All eyes gazed upward, for descending from the rafters on a platform jazzed up to look like a cloud was none other than Rob’s first cousin, Pastor Sam. Undoubtedly the majority of the folks there had seen this mockery in the sky a thousand times, but from the hoopla it created, one would have thought it was indeed the Second Coming. C.J., on the other hand, was livid.

“Abby,” she shouted into my ear, “there ought to be a law against this.”

“This is America; we have the freedom to get as carried away as we want. Doesn’t your granny’s church use snakes in their worship service?”

But she was too mesmerized to answer. I’ll say this, Pastor Sam had a first-rate makeup artist at his disposal; the man appeared positively radiant. Even his robes were dazzling white. If I’d tried to imagine a celestial being, this might have been the image I would have come up with.

Just as the cloud was about to touch the stage floor, Pastor Sam stepped lightly off and faced his congregation with a smile as dazzling as his robes. I even found myself smiling back. Pastor Sam’s smile grew even wider and he locked his eyes on mine. No, it couldn’t have been me he was gazing at so tenderly.

But then, sure enough, he was walking my way, his eyes still on mine, his right hand extended.

“Uh-oh, Spaghetti Os,” I said. “What do I do now?”

“Run, Abby, run,” C.J. said. “I’ll try and hold him off.”

Her advice only added to my panic. “I haven’t done anything—except to impersonate someone of deeper devotion. That isn’t a crime, is it?”

“Actually, I think it might be a crime in Idaho—or is that Montana? You know, where that senator’s from; the one with such a wide stance. Personally, Abby, I never did see anything wrong with having a wide stance. Cousin Leopold Singleton Ledbetter back in Shelby had a wide stance; of course he had three legs—”

But I wasn’t really listening, because my thoughts were on Sam. And that’s exactly where he wanted them to be, because the next thing I knew, that young, blond-haired devil had taken my right hand in his and was leading me up to the stage. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no longer a young chickadee, one that can be easily overwhelmed by a stud muffin’s charisma, but I felt like a virgin bride being led to her bed. That man could generate enough electricity to light up Idaho, or Montana, or wherever it was that folks tend to have wide stances—bless their hearts.

We climbed a short flight of stairs and kept walking until we reached our mark in the center of the stage. Then Sam slid his arm around my shoulders. I was reminded of the story of Eve in the Garden of Eden and the treacherous serpent. But unlike the first woman ever created, I was no dithering innocent; I knew that the slithering arm spelled trouble, yet I could not bring myself to run. It is no accident, I think, that the first syllable of the word
hormones
is what it is.

“Brothers and sisters,” Sam said into his handheld microphone, “y’all know what today’s service is all about!”

“Healing!” the crowd managed to roar, even though it is fairly difficult to do so without any R’s in the word.

“That’s right. There will be no sermon today, no plea for funds—although the Good Lord knows we are always in need, and the ushers
will
be passing buckets around during the offertory. Today it is about healing; healing of the spirit, and healing of the body.”

Pastor Sam turned to me. “Ma’am, are you saved?”

The truth is that I’m a lapsed Episcopalian, and one who prefers different terminology; but I knew what he meant. I also knew better than to argue theology with him.

“Yes!” I shouted.

“Glory hallelujah!”

“Glory hallelujah!” The crowd was on their feet, stamping and shouting, and the organist was playing victory music lifted straight from the ball park.

Sam waved his hypnotic arms. “Then what we got here, folks, is a healing of the body; a genuine miracle that y’all will be privileged to witness.”

“Amen!”

“Quick,” Pastor Sam said to me, “what’s your illness?”

“My
what
?”

“Your sickness. Hurry up, ma’am, spit it out.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have the foggiest notion what you mean.”

“The front row is reserved for folks who are sick. Didn’t the ushers screen y’all?”

“Well—”

“Think of a disease right quick,” Sam growled under his breath.

“Floccinaucinihilipilification,” I said. “It’s gotten into my bloodstream and my doctors think that I might not last through the night.” I doubled over as I grabbed my gut and let out a heart-wrenching moan.

“You hear that folks? This little gal has flocci—uh—help me out here, little lady.”

“Naucinihilipilification,” I said. “The pain is excruciating! Oh Pastor, do something. Please! I beseech you!” By the way, it is a real English word and references the act of making something worthless.

“Easy does it,” Pastor Sam said under his breath. “Overacting will get the reporters’ attention; and believe me there are always a few embedded in a group this size.” He held the mike closer to his heavily rouged lips. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time,” he said.

“Praise the Lord and pass the apple Danish,” I said.

“You see, folks,” Pastor Sam said, “the poor woman’s delirious from all that pain.”

“And how much wood
would
a woodchuck chuck?” I said. “How come nobody ever answers that?”

“Dial it back, sister,” he grunted. “You’re about to blow my cover. Pastor Sam does not like exposés.”

“Meet me in your office after services, Pastor, or you’ll get an Oscar-worthy show.”

“So,” he hissed, “you
are
a reporter.”

“Absolutely not. I am, however, the woman who inherited your Aunt Jerry’s fabulous emerald ring!” I whipped off my irritating bifocals. “Do you remember me now?”

“Get out of my church!”

I threw my arms in the air. “I feel a healing coming on! Say it, Pastor!
Heal
-ing!” I grabbed the mike from the flummoxed flimflam conman. “Come on, people. Put your hands together.
Heal
-ing!
Heal
-ing!”

The congregation clapped and stomped their feet. They chanted to the boisterous beat of the organ, which sounded more human than instrumental. Meanwhile C.J. had joined me onstage, where she was waving her gigantic arms like they were flesh-covered batons. I immediately discovered that the big gal didn’t need a microphone to be heard all the way back to the farthest reaches of the stadium-size sanctuary, but I tossed it to her anyway.

“Come here, child,” she said to me.

I stood dangerously close, which is anywhere within reach. She laid a ham-size mitt on my head, and to be honest, I felt another electrical charge run through my body.

“Naucinihilipilification, be gone,” she said.

I felt like I’d been kicked by a horse. “Whoa!”

“Are you healed?” she demanded.

I pushed the mike away. “C.J., darling, naucinihilipilification isn’t a disease.”

“Don’t be silly, Abby; of course it is. Granny runs an awful fever each time she gets it.” She felt my forehead, and in the process nearly knocked me over. “Nope; you’re not running a temperature. In fact,” she said, “you’re as cool as a maggot on a week-old corpse. Hallelujah,” she yelled through the microphone, blowing out at least one of the speakers. “This little no- account woman has been completely healed.”

“No-account? I took you into the business and taught you everything you know. Ergo the goat girl from Shelby is now one of the most respected antiques dealers in all of the Southeast. I also introduced you to my brother, Toy, and to hear him tell it, you toyed with his heart, yet I stuck up for you, even though you changed your race in the middle of your short-lived marriage and declared that European-American men smelled like wet dogs.”

“Oy vey,” Sam said into his hands, which covered his face. “This has got to be hell.”

“Excuse me,” someone with a thick Gastonia accent said, “but is this the healing line? Sister Eliza’s goiter is growing by leaps and bounds. She refuses to eat any salt—even the kind containing iodine—on account of she heard on television that eating salt is bad for us.”

“Bring her on up here,” C.J. said, “and let the goiter be gone!”

“C.J.,” I growled, “you can’t promise that.”

“Abby, I have the
gift
, so let me be.” The big galoot’s steel gray eyes seemed to bore right through mine, giving me an instant headache.

This was a different woman than the one that I knew as Calamity Jane. Intense, focused, charismatic, magnetic, supercharged—a genuine healer! Pastor Sam and I stepped back and observed from a respectful distance, but what we witnessed for the next hour was unbelievable! Indescribable, even, although I shall try.

I saw a woman with a shriveled arm return to her seat, tears streaming down her face, marveling at the perfectly normal limb that she now possessed. I saw a teenager who had never walked a step rise out of a wheelchair and dance for joy, while his parents wept in each other’s arms, because they too were so overcome with emotion.

And I saw what C.J.’s intercession did for the woman with the goiter. She approached the stage wearing a blue silk scarf that covered but did not camouflage a huge lump on her neck. After C.J. did her thing, the woman tugged at the scarf, and as it came undone, you could see the goiter disappear in front of your eyes. I was stunned! I mean, there’s simply no faking that. And when the scarf came all the way off you could see that the woman’s neck was as bare and smooth as the top of Aaron Ovumkoph’s head.