Sister Booth stepped forward and took the microphone from Reverend Carl’s hand and began to sing. Reverend Carl turned around and smiled at his audience, glanced down at the front of his trousers and then fastened his eyes on the man with crutches across the aisle from Mrs. Vogel and Mary Frances.
“Brother,” he said, “Brother, if you have known pain, come on up here and let me help you to throw away those crutches and jog with God.”
The man was not sure that the Reverend Carl had spoken to him. He pointed to himself, and the Reverend nodded. Then Mrs. Vogel stood up and called, “Reverend, Reverend Carl!”
“Yes, my dear,” he said turning a saintly smile in her direction.
“Reverend, my mama here is in awful shape since her stroke four years ago this July. She ain’t got too many more days, Reverend, and I would like for her to be able to jog on up to them Pearly Gates. Can we come forward, too?”
“Come,” he said, “My arms are open . . .”
He should not have said open, for as soon as he did, Malcolm unzipped his pants again. This time Reverend Carl buttoned his jacket, pleased with himself for having thought of it. Malcolm unknotted the blue bow at his neck. Reverend Carl pulled it out from under his collar and threw it to Mrs. Vogel. “Come,” he said, “with faith and with my healing hands, her body will become as unknotted as easily as I undo my scarf.”
Mrs. Vogel hurriedly hung her pocketbook over the back of Mary Frances’s wheelchair and pushed the old lady up to the front of the stage, bumping over feet and crutches in her hurry to get there. Reverend Carl knelt down at the edge of the stage, making welcoming motions with his hands until he noticed that he had opened up the split in his pants displaying blue drawers that matched his bow tie. He shot bolt upright and sang out, “Bring that sweet Mama of yours up here on stage, and we will witness the miracle of my healing hands.”
Mrs. Vogel had to turn Mary Frances around and bump her up the steps backwards to get her onstage, and Mary Frances’s cockamamie hat hung down near her right nostril, but she held onto her lopsided position and continued to drool as if she couldn’t be any other way. Carl Vogel approached the wheelchair, and Mary Frances still looked as if she had been frozen in that position by some medical process that didn’t deserve a good name. He raised his hands over her head and began to ask Mrs. Vogel questions such as: had she been a healthy, happy woman before she had been felled by this stroke. Mrs. Vogel brought tears to her eyes and assured Reverend Carl that her Mama was the healthiest, happiest person in Tompkins County and the two counties that bordered it.
Reverend Carl put his hands on top of Mary Frances’s head and started mumbling, and Sister Booth called through the flap, “Hey, Sister Love, honey, cut them lights to major miracle size.” And the lights went down.
Reverend Carl continued mumbling, mumbling, and then he lifted his eyes up and began praying out loud, looking at the ceiling of the tent the whole time. He spoke faster than any human being I had ever heard, but by listening carefully to what he said, I heard him asking for guidance, good weather and a winning ticket on the state lottery. He then brought his hands down and tapped Mary Frances’s head and said, “Arise, little woman. We have given your pain to the Lord. You can walk now.” He tapped her head again, but Mary Frances did not move.
Mrs. Vogel straightened the hat, and one of the blue jay feathers came off in her hand, and she began tearing at it as she said, “Mama, Reverend Carl says that you can walk now.”
Mary Frances did not move.
Reverend Carl did some hocus-pocus with his hands and did some more chanting at the ceiling and then tapped her on the head again. “Arise, my child,” he said.
Mary Frances did not move.
“Arise and jog.” Reverend Carl said.
Mary Frances did not move.
“Get up!” Mrs. Vogel said. “For God’s sake, Mama, get up.”
I walked around to where Sister Booth was standing and wrestled the microphone out of her hand. I put my mouth right up to the microphone and breathed into it like an obscene telephone caller, and then I panted into it until the sounds seemed to invade every corner of the tent. Then, when I knew I had their attention, I said, “You told her not to be cured until after Uncle Henderson over on the other side of the room has his sight to come back.”
And the next thing that happened was that Reverend Carl whispered to Mrs. Vogel, “Get Sister Love to cut them damn lights and git this dame out of here.”
The lights did go off for a minute, but then they went on to their brightest and stayed on. I knew then that Malcolm had found the switch and was making certain that Mr. Carl Vogel would be shown in full light.
Reverend Carl was standing red-faced in front of Mary Frances’s wheelchair, and Mrs. Vogel was wringing her hands behind it. I went over there and began to push Mary Frances across the stage and down the steps and out the back of the tent. The whole time the old actress did not change her warped look or stop drooling. For all the world it looked like the wheelchair had some radar device guiding it carefully down one step at a time. So much had gone wrong that evening that Mrs. Vogel barely glanced in our direction. Most of her attention was directed to the people in the audience who were limping, walking and wheeling their way out with their pockets as full of cash as when they had arrived. She took up the mike and begged them to stay. She said that all this had been a little test of Satan’s.
I wheeled Mary Frances around the outside of the tent until I found Malcolm standing at the light switch out back. I leaned down and said to Mary Frances, “You’re never going to get anything but blame for this job, Mary Frances, but I think you ought to get an Oscar for special effects.”
Mary Frances said, “They promised me forty-two dollars and carfare.”
I took the pocketbook from the back of the wheelchair and opened it. “How much is carfare?” I asked.
“Three seventy-five plus the add-on for after dark. That’s four dollars and twenty-five cents plus one dollar tolls makes it five twenty-five.”
I found a wallet in the pocketbook. There were hundreds of dollars in it. Malcolm said, “That’s a total of forty-seven dollars and twenty-five cents.” And I removed exactly that amount and handed it to Mary Frances. Malcolm told her to sign a receipt for tax purposes. I found an old spiral notebook in the purse and wrote out a receipt that we had Mary Frances sign.
“That lady ought to be grateful to have my autograph,” she said.
“Maybe so,” I said, “but for now, I don’t think she will want too many reminders of your act.”
Mary Frances said, “I would like to shake your hands, but I don’t think I ought to take the time to look for them.”
I told her to just blow us a kiss goodbye, and she did.
I opened the pocketbook again, took the package of Herbert Tareyton cigarettes from it, tossed it back onto the seat of the wheelchair and said, “Papillon!”
Tallulah says, “Kissing is the handshake of show business.”
four
WE WERE BACK at Rahab Station. Tallulah was lying across her pillow-laden sofa, smoking and absent-mindedly stroking a large Dalmatian that was lying on a mound of pillows that had been tossed on the floor. Around its neck, exactly where Malcolm had detected the worn fur, the dog was wearing a collar studded with sparkling stones. The dog got up and greeted us, wagging its tail like any ordinary pet.
“So he was just a decoy,” Malcolm said.
Tallulah looked up lazily. “His name is Spot.”
I said, “I thought you would give a dog a more creative name than that.”
“It suits him,” Tallulah said. The dog finished sniffing us and lay down on the pillows again, and Tallulah resumed stroking its back. “Did you bring me my cigarettes?”
I handed them to her. She examined the pack, counting. “Fourteen. They should get me through dinner time.” With long, red-tipped fingers she pulled a cigarette out of the pack and put it into her black cigarette holder. “Malcolm,”
she said, “a gentleman always offers a lady a light.”
“I don’t think you should smoke.”
It was funny that Malcolm who never worried about his health did not like the idea of someone else smoking. I didn’t mind it at all.
“When I want health advice, darling, I’ll haunt the Mayo Clinic. Now, be a gentleman and light Tallulah’s cigarette.”
Malcolm lit her cigarette, and she inhaled deeply, held the smoke for a long, long time and then blew a perfect smoke ring up toward the ceiling. “Tell me what you did Topside,” she said.
We told her, and she laughed. She roared. Her laugh was like a chorus of amens. Between us, we managed to relate every detail of what had happened, and Tallulah said, “I’m glad that you paid Mary Frances her forty-two dollars and carfare. Poor darling, she never made it to the big time. Bad marriages.” She sat bolt upright and addressed Malcolm. “Now if you want to talk about bad habits, darling, you just have an in-depth conversation with Mary Frances. She can fill a Rolodex with bad habits. I can think of four to file under the letter S alone.” She relaxed again and smiled, half to herself. “But she can act, can’t she?”
Seeing how much she enjoyed our account of what happened, I asked her why she didn’t come with us.
“I can’t do a thing Topside, darling. I’m incorporeal. I’m just a whiff of a thing. No body. No body at all.”
“Then what are we seeing?” I turned to Malcolm. “You see her, don’t you, Malcolm? You see a person. A body.”
Malcolm nodded.
Tallulah said. “Don’t worry, Jeanmarie. Of course, you see me. That first box you passed through, the Epigene, enables you to see the unseen, and the Orgone makes you invisible.” She saw that I still looked uneasy. “Relax, darling. That first lavendor box—beautiful, wasn’t it?” We nodded. “That’s the Epigene. It enables you to see the incorporeal—that’s me, darling—and the Orgone makes you invisible. Simple.”
I asked her if she thought Carl E. Vogel would give up his phony ministry.
“For a while. Before he became a faith healer, he sold medical school diplomas, and before that, he sold licorice-flavored sugar water as arthritis medicine. He does seem to enjoy bilking the sick and disabled. I just hope that Sisters Booth and Love find work elsewhere. Did you like their singing?” We said that we did. “I’m glad, darlings. They’re real country.” She crossed one blue satin leg over the other and said. “I imagine that it’s getting late. I think you better return Topside.” She instructed us to walk downstage and to stand perfectly still under the hood that would suck us back up through the Epigene. As we started to walk away, she called out to us, “Remember to take your shovels, darlings. Tallulah cannot think what she would do with them except they might make cute earrings for King Kong.” She waved to us as we waited to be transported back through the Epigene and said that she would have Spot play dead again when she was ready for us to have our second trial.
WE CHECKED Jericho Tel after school every day. On Saturday, when Mother and I did grocery shopping and laundry, I saw Malcolm and his father at the laundromat. We exchanged a few words and learned that neither one of us would have a chance to visit Jericho Tel that day. I watched Mr. Soo folding laundry. Even their underjerseys were folded with knifelike edges, and their wash was white enough for a TV commercial. I would be embarrassed to have my laundry look that good; people would think that mother and I had nothing better to do with our time.
As Mother and I left the laundromat, I saw a line at the movie. The Exorcist was playing; it was about a young girl who is possessed by the devil and begins to vomit green and pee on the carpet in front of her mothers guests. Not any ordinary carpet but an Oriental rug. There had been stories in the newspaper about people passing out right in the theater because some scenes in the movie were so gross. Of course, everyone at school was talking about having seen The Exorcisty going to see it or wanting to. No one under seventeen was allowed in without being accompanied by an adult. I saw Lynette Hrivnak, who was queen of the sixth grade clones, and two members of her court standing in line to get in; they had somebody’s big brother with them. It must have been a big brother because one of the clones looked like him, and the others were admiring his pimples.
Mother asked me if I would like to go with her to see the movie, but I said that I didn’t want to stand in line. There was no point in telling her that I had heard enough about the movie to know that I would vomit. It might not be green, but it would be disgusting.
On Sunday, Mother and I had an early dinner together before she left. I had finished washing up the dishes and was feeling less lonely than I usually did when Mother had to work on Sunday. I was even slightly anxious for her to go because I had Jericho Tel to look forward to. I wandered over there, half hoping that Spot would be there, and a little worried that he would be, for I was not sure that Malcolm would be able to get away, and I did not think I was ready to venture into Rahab Station without him.
When I saw Spot lying there smack in the middle of Jericho Tel, all my doubts about whether or not I wanted to return vanished. My heart started pounding, and I started running out of the Tel to get my shovel. I immediately ran back and said to Spot, “I’ll be right back. Stay, Spot. Stay. Jeanmarie’s going to get her shovel. Jeanmarie will be right back.” I was one past excited; I was thrilled. I hoped Malcolm could come, but there was no way that I would not go even if he couldn’t. I raced to Malcolm’s house, swallowed hard and told my heart to calm down before I walked up the two steps to knock on his door. Mr. Soo answered.
“Is Malcolm home?” I asked.
“Yes. He is in shower bath. You like to come in and wait?”
“No, thank you. But would you please tell him that I have spotted our next assignment?”
“Okay. I tell him.”
“Please tell him now and please use those very words: I have spotted our next assignment.”
“For what class, miss?”
I thought. “Tell him . . . tell him ... for Jericho’s. Will you tell him that?”
Mr. Soo said that he would, and I ran home to get my shovel, worried that if I did not move quickly, Spot would not still be there when I returned. I had no way of knowing how long he had been waiting for me to find him. There is nothing more frustrating than having to do two things at once except having to hurry doing them. I hated rushing more than anything. I often wished that I lived in a time when it took so long to do things—like washing clothes or getting from one place to another—that the doing of them in itself was an accomplishment. Of course if that were so then there wouldn’t be airports and my mother wouldn’t have a job, and our family wash would look ghastly.
Maybe I had slowed down enough or maybe Malcolm had hurried up enough, but he was there, shovel in hand, by the door of his trailer when I got there.
Together we raced to Jericho Tel.
Spot was waiting, no longer lying down, playing dead, but sitting up. He started wagging his tail as soon as we reached the opening. As soon as we were within the opening, we felt ourselves being swept toward center. We wanted to enter Rahab Station together, so we poked our shovels into the ground at the count of three. They hardly made contact with the earth when we felt ourselves being sucked down until we landed on top of the Epigene. Spot followed, and as soon as his four paws hit the lavender lid, the box opened, and we tumbled down, down, down through the Epigene until we landed on our feet, facing Tallulah in her blue satin pajamas, lying in her nest of pastel satin pillows, holding Spot’s collar.
She seemed glad to see us.
“I’m just delighted, darlings, that you were available this evening. My dear, dear friend, Horace Livermore, is dining with his fiancée, Isobel Wooton, at The Left Bank, an absolutely fabulous restaurant in New York. The food is divine.” She buckled Spot’s collar around his neck and patted his rump. “I hope you’ll bring back a doggie bag for Spot. He’s dying—forgive the expression—for some red meat, poor creature.”
Malcol
m said, “Well, aren’t you going to tell us our assignment?”
“Don’t be pushy, darling.”
“Last time, you at least told us who it was. Aren’t you even going to tell us that much.”
“No, darling. This test is a little bit harder, you see.”
“I’d say it’s a lot harder.”
“Yes, that’s the nature of most tests. Not screen tests, however. The acting got easier and easier. The only problem was the camera got harsher and harsher. I have never thought it fair that by the time I could play any age at all—having been through them all—the only thing the camera picked up was an old lady. I’ll never forgive the camera for that. The camera does lie, darlings. It never sees the girl within the woman, and that girl is always there. Remember that whenever you see an old lady. There’s still part of her that is just twelve years old.” She tore the wrapping off a fresh pack of cigarettes.
“I see that you have a large supply of cigarettes,” I said.
“Yes, darling, they’re bootleg. No state stamps. The truck got stopped coming from North Carolina, and the highway patrol confiscated them. They used to burn them until everyone read the Surgeon General’s report. Now they bury them. Spot is such a good dog at sniffing out booty. God bless him, and God bless the highway patrol for doing their job so well. I’m afraid I must ask you to bring me matches from The Left Bank. It’s not that I’m asking for souvenirs, you see; that is too, too tacky for words. And Tallulah does so hate to be tacky, but she needs the matches, darlings. She really does. Do you think you could lift a dozen books of matches for old Tallulah?”
“Is that all?” Malcolm asked. “Is that all the instructions we’re going to get?”
Tallulah looked at him, surprised. “I thought I made it all perfectly clear. Part of the test is finding the problem.”
Up From Jericho Tel Page 4