JIM BAYLOR was an ex-marine in his forties with a crew cut he’d kept ever since boot camp and a low, growly voice befitting a former drill sergeant. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was built like a solid, immovable rock and had a personality to match. Right now he was a surveyor, but he’d been several other things over the years: draftsman, carpenter, mechanic, plumber, electrician, painter, oil well worker. His garage workshop was worth visiting because he still had every tool he’d ever used in all those trades. He could build a house with the carpentry tools that hung on the wall. He could fix any vehicle with the automotive tools and specialized gizmos he kept on the workbench and in a big red metal cabinet on wheels—things like a wheel puller, a spring compressor, and a spark plug wire puller. In case anyone in Antioch needed an oil well fixed, he still had adjustable wrenches big enough to turn a tree. If nothing else, he could tell you how long, wide, tall, or deep something was because he always carried a twenty-five-foot Stanley tape measure clipped to his belt.
Jim was a hunter who stuffed his own trophies and had a room full of them. He was a storyteller who could share his marine, hunting, building, plumbing, and Alaskan oil adventures for hours, never raising his voice but keeping you enthralled from beginning to end. He enjoyed his friends, liked to get involved in projects that helped others, and wasn’t much of a whiner. He was a reasonable, logical kind of guy.
And he was married to Dee Baylor.
As near as I can recall his account, he first met Dee when she was tending bar at a tavern near the marine base. She was as crusty and feisty as he was in those days and could hold her own in any stare-down or shouting match with any grunt or officer, she didn’t care. She won Jim’s heart by showing an interest in him to the exclusion of every other man who’d come through the place—something he took as a real compliment. He always liked her because, though he could scare most anyone else, he couldn’t scare her. They were right for each other.
He insisted they still were. He loved her. But I could tell by the way he kept finding excuses to come over and talk—well, work on something and talk while we were at it—that he was troubled and perplexed.
Today the excuse was the shelves I wanted to hang in the bedroom. I needed more space for books, I had a small aquarium I wanted to put back into service, and I still had a portable CD player sitting on the floor. My landlord was going to deduct the cost from my rent, so I went for the idea. So did Jim. All I had to do was mention those shelves and he made plans to come over.
So we worked, finding studs, drilling holes, setting molly screws, and hanging shelves, and as we worked, we talked.
“Kinda glad the weather’s cleared up,” he said, sweeping my newly purchased stud finder along the wall. “At least now I get to see more of her.” He looked at me suddenly, as if he’d said something amiss. “No offense, now, right, Travis?”
“No, no offense.”
“I mean, Christianity’s fine, I’ve got nothing against it. We’ve talked about that.”
“Sure.”
“And I didn’t say anything when she started speaking in tongues over our dinner every night. I didn’t want to get in her way if it meant so much to her.” He found the stud and made a small pencil mark on the wall. “And when she started dancing and whirling around, I didn’t say anything. She doesn’t do it at home that much, so I don’t have to worry about my floor joists. I, uh . . .” His voice trailed off and he drilled some holes.
“Yeah?” I prodded.
“I think maybe this cloud thing might be better for her. She might be getting—don’t tell her I said this—she might be getting too old and too heavy to be falling down all the time. You ought to see the bruises she used to come home with.” He added quickly, “Now I know it wasn’t you knocking her down.”
“No, it wasn’t me.” All I ever did was pray for her, usually during our Sunday morning service, often at midweek Bible study.
She might have a cold, need some guidance from the Lord, or just need a refreshing in the Spirit. It didn’t matter. Whenever I took her hand or rested my hand on her head to pray for her, I wouldn’t get out more than one or two sentences before my hand would be touching thin air and she would be on her way to the floor, “slain in the Spirit.” Sometimes a friend would be there to catch her and at least soften her landing. Sometimes she’d go over with nothing but the floor to stop her and you could hear her bones hitting the hardwood. Nothing could stop her. I once asked her not to fall down, but she went down anyway, unable to resist the power of God. The rest of the congregation had gotten fairly used to it—sometimes the ushers would just step over her when they had to collect the offering—but it often seemed a little weird to new visitors. Adrian Folsom fell occasionally, especially if Dee fell first; Blanche never did. Anyway, I knew better than to think it was from any great anointing on my part.
Jim threw up one hand in resignation. “She said it was God that knocked her over.”
“That could be.” It was a safe thing to say. I wasn’t one to limit God, but right now I had a real attitude about the subject, so I had to be careful.
“But now she’s watching the clouds and that’s better. The worst she can get is a kink in her neck. Have you met that new pastor yet?”
“Kyle Sherman?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve met.”
“What do you think of him?”
I had to skip over the first thoughts that came to mind and find some nicer ones. “He’s young, but he’s honest and means well. I think he’ll be all right.”
“Haven’t met him yet, but I know I’m going to. One of these days he’s going to be knocking on my door, trying to rope me in.”
We were ready to hang a shelf on the newly installed brackets. We each took one end and lifted it into place. Nice fit. “I’ve already got my wife leaving me little notes and Scripture verses on the fridge and the bathroom mirror. But if she thinks I’m going to start talking in Chinese and dancing around and falling on the floor, she’s got another think coming.”
“How about watching the clouds?”
He threatened me with his hammer, and we laughed.
“Did I ever tell you about Al Sutter’s combine?” he asked.
“You were going to.”
He launched into a tale about Al Sutter’s nephew trying to run Al’s thirty-year-old combine, and then we talked about a Cadillac he was thinking of restoring. The gospel came up again after that, with a few questions about Jesus and whether he ever went fishing, which got us on the subject of fishing, which led to the fish and game laws, which led to some political discussion, which got us back to religion again, somehow. This was Jim’s way, like putting cream and sugar in a cup of coffee, and it worked for both of us.
As long as we kept the serious subjects mixed in with easier ones and had some work to do, we felt comfortable and got along fine.
By the time he left that afternoon, we both felt a little better and I had a beautiful new set of shelves.
And then the phone rang.
“Hello?”
The voice was familiar, but quiet, subtle. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I waited until your guest left.”
I could feel a tease in that last sentence, as if he wanted me to look around and wonder where he was. I didn’t bite. “You didn’t finish mowing John’s lawn.”
“Tell him to be patient. I’ll get around to it next time.”
I sat on the couch, taking only a quick sideways glance out the window. I didn’t see him, but that didn’t surprise me. “I suppose you know what’s been going on in town these last few days.”
“It’s been exciting. I’ve enjoyed it.”
“And I take it you’re the one responsible.”
He chuckled. “Hey, I’ll take credit for some of it, but people seeing my face in the mildew of a shower or a hedge, that’s absurd.”
“What about the clouds?”
“No, no, that’s passé. It’s been done.”
“Wel
l, hasn’t there been a weeping crucifix before?”
“Mm. Not that many. But it got their attention, didn’t it?”
“Oh yeah. You made it on the evening news.”
“So I got what I wanted. We’ve created a buzz, as they say.” He seemed rather tickled with himself. “But what are you thinking, Travis? Are you getting the point?”
I fidgeted and shifted the receiver to my other ear. “I didn’t know there was a point.”
“People need results. They need to see something. You know how it was: ‘Show us a sign so we can believe in you.’ Give the people what they want and they’ll show up.”
I dug deep for some patience. “Doesn’t it bother you that I have no idea who you are or why you’re even calling me?”
He ignored me. “Be honest, Travis. Are you so much different from them? Haven’t you ever felt the way they do? Haven’t you ever wished I’d just do what you ask and not keep you guessing and waiting and wondering? Up until now you’ve never even seen me. I wonder if that’s fair.”
“You can quit the masquerade. You’re not Jesus and you know it.”
He paused just a moment, and then I could hear him stifling a little laugh, probably smiling. “Humor me, Travis, just for the sake of argument. You expected a lot from me when you were younger, remember? You thought I’d heal Andy and Karla. You thought I’d get you out of the shipyard. You thought I’d bring Amber back to you. You even thought I’d given you signs and prophecies, remember?”
If he was trying to scare me, he was succeeding. I had no words as I groped my memory for any clue about this man, any time or place I may have known him before.
“Travis, that’s okay, don’t worry about it. I’m only making a point. You expected a lot from me and I disappointed you. That’s part of what you’re dealing with, isn’t it?”
“That was a long time ago. I was just a kid.”
“So what happened to Andy?”
I didn’t answer.
He goaded me. “Traaaavis . . . What happened?”
I snapped at him. “You’re God. You tell me!”
“Remember the next day at school, Travis? Remember his hands shaking? Remember how scared he was?”
I could still see Andy and Karla together, confronting me in the lunchroom. Andy had skipped his insulin that morning, and now he was reacting. They were asking me what they should do. Karla was still wearing her glasses.
I told them, “Just believe. Believe and you’ll be healed.”
We prayed together, trusting God.
That afternoon, Karla took Andy home for some insulin. He made it through okay.
The voice sounded soothing, as if trying to comfort me. “So you can’t blame people for getting excited. I’m doing things, Travis.
I’m actually making things happen. I’ve changed.”
I’d been holding back the question because I knew he wouldn’t answer it, but now there was no other thought or question available. “I want to know who you are.”
He didn’t answer it. “I healed Norman Dillard and Matt Kiley today.”
This could have been good news, but not the teasing way he said it. “You did what?”
“I healed them, Travis.” He dragged out the word healed as if he enjoyed making me hear it. “Just like I’m supposed to do. Norman can see without his glasses and Matt can walk. It’s all over town by now. People are going nuts.”
I just wasn’t going to fall for this. “I’m going to call Matt and ask him.”
“He isn’t home right now. I think he’s walking around town showing off.”
“I’m calling him.”
“You’ll have to talk to Kyle Sherman first. He’s about to call you. Talk to you soon.”
Click. He was gone.
I kept the receiver in my hand as I pressed the button to hang up my end. Before I could release it, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Travis!” It was Kyle Sherman. “Have you heard about Norman Dillard and Matt Kiley?”
I didn’t want to hear about it from Kyle, but I did want to hear about it. I finally said, “Tell me.”
He told me every detail. Apparently the town was still in an uproar and Matt really was taking a walk around the town to show off. “Norman and Matt say Jesus did it. They say he’s in town, Travis. Remember what you said at the ministerial meeting? Well, it’s happened.”
I sat there, not a word coming to mind.
“What do you make of it?”
“Uh, I don’t know, Kyle. I have to think about it.” But what could I think about the man who mowed half of John Billings’s lawn, called me after Jim Baylor had left, and knew all about Andy and Karla? “Did you see Matt yourself? Can he really walk?”
“Yes, Travis. He can really walk. He’s healed. And Norman can read things far away without his glasses.”
I just couldn’t get into a conversation with Kyle Sherman. Not about this.
“This isn’t Jesus, Travis! You know that!”
I kept silent.
“Hello?”
“I’m here. I’m thinking.”
“What’s to think about? We have to do something! We have to pray this thing into the open and come against it— ”
“I said I have to think about it!”
Kyle heard the edge in my voice and backed off a little. “Okay.
You think about it. I’m going to pray about it.”
“Talk to you later.” I hung up.
But the truth was, I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to admit that somehow the man on the hill, on the mower, on the phone, had invaded my life and plundered my memories. My memories!
The same memories that had all come back so vividly, so hauntingly, in recent days, welcome or not. . . .
Eight
DID I HAVE FAITH when I prayed for Andy? I thought I did. Andy got his insulin and pulled through okay. But he felt discouraged—not because he hadn’t been healed, but because going home and injecting himself seemed like a cop-out, a surrender to doubt, a lack of trust in God. Somehow, he thought, it had to be his fault that the healing had not happened.
I was upset as well, and for a short, awkward time, we tried to do some spiritual troubleshooting.
If I had faith, maybe Andy didn’t have enough faith when I prayed. He was pretty sure he did, although he was feeling a little uncomfortable at the time, and that might have jammed the signals somehow.
How about sin in our lives? That could mess things up for sure. I kept confessing everything I could think of and then started wondering if Andy was still hiding something. Nothing dramatic happened, even with more fasting.
Did we still have ongoing faith for his healing, or were we doubting? I was sure I had faith and did all I could to stay sure. “We need to pray this through and believe,” I said. “God is testing us, seeing if we really trust him. We have to hold onto the promise!”
That didn’t make it any easier for Andy. He was the one needing the insulin, risking death if he didn’t get it, and feeling guilty every time he did. Besides that, his parents did not have the spiritual insight that we had, and told him he’d better stay on his insulin or they would kill him before his diabetes had a chance to.
Amber suggested we should just give God more time to complete the healing, and that concept, being open-ended, turned out to be the most comfortable. We fell into it easily, naturally, and went on praising, praying, and believing God. We were still counting on miracles, still hearing and believing prophecies, still expecting great things.
But I never again laid hands on anyone for healing at a Ke-nyon– Bannister meeting. No one ever said I shouldn’t, and I never heard anyone say they didn’t believe in my gift. We just didn’t talk about it. Without a word or a spoken agreement, we let the whole matter slip beneath the surface where it remained, right alongside the Question.
Karla still wears glasses to this day. Andy died from complications related to his diabetes in 1985.
I DID NOT ENJOY such memories, but hey, I’d already been laboring over them for months, bearing the pain in an honest effort to sort them out. I didn’t ask for, nor did I need, old what’s-his-name stirring up the pile.
He had certainly managed to stir up the town. Although he had made no further appearances since the big Matt-and-Norman incident, folks kept right on believing and hanging onto their excitement. For Antioch, just the fact that people were excited was exciting. The media remained interested, but started dropping a few hints here and there: Competition for a slot on the evening news was fierce. Whoever this guy was, he would have to show up soon and do something worthy of television’s attention or the story would die.
Norman Dillard didn’t want that to happen. Neither did Matt Kiley, or Gary Fisk, who ran the Sundowner Motel on the other end of town. Jack McKinstry was hoping the flow of business through his grocery store would keep flowing, and Don Anderson had just stocked more cameras and camcorders in his appliance store.
As for the ministers in town, I think they were mainly concerned with helping the Ship of Church maintain an even keel.
Bob Fisher, the Baptist, was busy with the Fudd Revival, and that occupied his mind until it was over. Afterward, Bob kept his Bible open, admonished his congregation to do the same, and warned everyone not to stray from that which was written.
Burton Eddy, the Presbyterian, made a veiled reference to the situation in a sermon entitled “What Hath God Wrought,” in which he extolled God’s lofty and unsearchable ways, whatever we might conceive them to be.
The crowds at Our Lady’s spoke loudly enough for Father Vendetti. He had nothing to add, at least for the time being.
Sid Maher, the Lutheran, said absolutely nothing about it.
Morgan Elliott, the Methodist, stayed out of the discussion as well.
Paul Daley, Howard Munson, and Andy Barker could have been out of town for all the feedback we got from them.
Mostly, what Antioch got from its ministers was business as usual and apart from that, silence. I figured they were waiting to see what might develop before taking a position.
All except for Kyle, of course. He was still working on his position, but he kept nothing inside during the process: The sightings, the miracles, and the mysterious visitor were most likely the work of Satan, he said, and the folks in his church—the whole town, for that matter—needed to wake up.
The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster Page 64