by Johnny Shaw
In recent years, Brother Tobin Floom performed fewer live sermons and instead devoted most of his time to his television appearances and arena-size events. The last few episodes of Health, Wealth, and Salvation had obviously been edited together with footage of Brother Floom on a soundstage and with stock footage of an audience. It hadn’t gone unnoticed either. Questions arose on the message board on Floom’s website, most of them showing concern for Brother Floom’s health. There was no official response from either Floom or the ministry.
The Living Word Chapel in Mission Viejo acted as Brother Floom’s ministry headquarters. Brother Floom made surprise appearances, but most often the congregation got the acting pastor Mervyn Whitlock. Five feet tall with the energy of someone who was five feet one, he looked like a younger, smaller version of Brother Floom, down to the white suit and gold handkerchief. Axel, ninety-six percent sure that Whitlock was coked out of his gourd, loved watching the little barrel of energy preach. Axel had met a few people who were naturally enthusiastic, but Whitlock was restless leg syndrome in human form.
Axel parked in the lower parking lot and got on the shuttle bus to the church entrance. The church grounds were massive. The place felt like a college campus, with outbuildings and a gymnasium. On the hill above the church, a giant cross looked down on the place of worship.
The three other parking lots had been full. Sunday evening services drew big crowds, especially when the church booked local favorites the Young Lions to perform. Having appeared on Brother Floom’s show multiple times, they were on the brink of national notoriety. With a new song getting some airplay on Air1, they brought in sweater-clad teens; middle-aged women who told themselves it was about worshipping God, not the tightly pantsed young men; and a number of smiling men with odd postures and hair-sprayed coifs stiffer than a Ken doll’s.
A toothy, big-eyed young woman greeted Axel at the entrance to the church. He had seen her before. She never blinked. Ever. She handed him a program. “Welcome back. Good to see you again.”
“Thank you,” Axel said. His efforts to establish himself as a regular in the congregation were starting to yield results. “A perfect day for fellowship.”
“Amen to that.” She smiled and turned to the couple that entered behind him. “Welcome back. Good to see you again.”
Axel turned away, disappointed. He thought he had developed a rapport with Allteeth Noblinky over the last two weeks, but her dismissive rebuke told him that had been in his head.
Was he really so lonely that he had monitored the degree of affection he had received from the church greeter? He missed his relationship with Priscilla. Even if it was based entirely on a lie. Even if it was fraud. At least he had someone.
Upbeat music—the new tune from the Young Lions—played over the sound system as Axel walked down the aisle to the front. An usher handed out a stapled brochure that listed the workshops being held that week. Over thirty different groups and classes, including a selection of online courses. Most were free but usually required some literature or a workbook. Axel wasn’t cynical enough to see everything that the church did as a money grab. It was a business, but that didn’t mean they weren’t making an effort: kids’ programs, marriage counseling, after-school teen opportunities, to name a few.
The Second Christian Reformed Church in Warm Springs hadn’t prepared him for the unsubtle assault of a megachurch. The Living Word sermons were high-energy events that felt like a mash-up between a rock concert, a self-help seminar, and a time-share pitch. Light on content, but full of passion, enthusiasm, and hope, they were an appealing form of entertainment and an effective form of salesmanship. There were worse ways to spend an evening. Elmer Gantry would have been proud. Sinclair Lewis would have been horrified.
As everyone else found their seat, Axel shifted his attention backstage and to the line of doors that led to the administrative area of the building. Like any concert or theatrical production, there was a clear divide between the front of the house and backstage.
A dozen men in identical suits paced the outer aisles, occasionally speaking into walkie-talkies. Not quite security, but also not quite not security, they acted as the front lines, the pawns on the board. They all had the posture of that one guy in the bar who wants to fight. Axel referred to these men as the 300, naming them after Gideon’s army in the Bible. Not to be confused with the movie 300, which was a completely different story about 300 different soldiers fighting against different impossible odds. Apparently 300 was the sweet spot for defeating massive armies and 301 was overkill—299 and you’re screwed.
Axel spotted Reverend Whitlock at the side of the stage talking to Thrace McCormick, the director of operations for Tobin Floom Ministries. He was one of the few people that reported to Brother Floom directly. If Axel was going to infiltrate the organization, McCormick would be the gateway. Tall, thin, and humorless, the sixty-something Thrace McCormick was camera-ready to be cast as the undertaker in a spaghetti Western.
When Whitlock left to check something on the stage, a woman approached McCormick. He had charted the personnel and their roles in the organization, but she was someone new. New and beautiful and in charge. Axel started to sweat, even in the frigid air-conditioning of the church.
The woman took McCormick to task about something. She didn’t yell and kept a smile on her face—obviously not wanting anyone to notice—but the look on McCormick’s face communicated everything. McCormick looked like he had been served a shit sandwich with extra shit and a side of french-fried shit. Rather than complain, he ate the shit buffet.
All Axel knew was that she was about his age and blond and had blue eyes and that she was beautiful and he wanted to meet her and talk to her about interesting things and maybe take her to Barcelona and eat tapas, but he was nervous about meeting her and maybe this was love and maybe she felt the same way even though they hadn’t met but there was such a thing as fate and destiny, but that was all stupid but yeah, he was definitely in love. Because look at her.
When their conversation concluded, McCormick walked away. The woman scanned the crowd before walking through one of the doors to the administrative area. Her eyes met Axel’s for a second. One second, tops. No more. But enough. They had a moment. Axel felt it. He knew she did, too.
Without planning or forethought, Axel stood and distractedly read his program as he strolled the perimeter near the front of the stage. Nobody noticed him, a member of the flock killing time before the service. The 300 weren’t out in full force, as the crowd was still thin. He wasn’t sure what he thought he’d accomplish other than getting kicked out, but he found himself walking to the side door that the blond woman had disappeared through. The door with the sign that read “Authorized Personnel Only.”
He ended up in a long hallway with doors every thirty feet. He tried knobs. All of them locked.
Two of the 300 turned a corner. They walked toward him but hadn’t spotted him, both looking down at one of their cell phones.
“Wait for it,” one of them said. “Wait for it.” And then they both busted up laughing. “Knocked that brother out.”
Axel’s whole body said “Run,” even if he knew he wasn’t in danger. This wasn’t Nazi headquarters. It was a church. All he had to do was act confused and ask where the bathrooms were.
He chose a different tack. If you weren’t where you belonged, the best thing to do was act like you did. He learned that sneaking into movie theaters. He was wearing a cardigan, for Christ’s sake. He pulled out his cell phone and fake-pressed a button as if receiving a call.
“Jerry Junior. Sorry I couldn’t take your call. I was on conference with Creflo. He’s fine. Says hello. Anyhoo, those dates you sent me don’t work. I can do Memphis in November, but Knoxville is out. No, no conflict. I just hate Knoxville.”
The 300 gave him a look as they passed in the hall but didn’t lose stride. He gave them a nod that attempted to convey both “Keep up the good work” and “I’m more important than you, so d
on’t speak to me.” His nods were more expressive than most people’s nods. It was all about using every neck muscle.
Axel kept up the one-man show. “Creflo mentioned maybe some events in England with Kenneth or Joel, but if we’re going to do something internationally, it’s not going to be in that novelty-tooth factory they call a country. Let’s go tropical. Costa Rica or Belize. I’ll email you an action plan.”
Axel gave the 300 a glance right before he turned the corner at the end of the hall. He watched them walk out into the stage area without giving him a second thought. He took a deep breath and put his phone in his pocket.
When he looked up, he almost ran right into the blond woman he had seen moments earlier. She was more beautiful up close. He might have made a squeaking sound.
“Are you okay?” the woman said. “You made a squeaking sound.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t know a human over two years old could hit that register. Like a dog toy.”
Axel opened his mouth to reiterate his unsqueakiness, but when his eyes met hers, he got lost in them. Blue pools that he wanted to swim laps inside. Azure skies devoid of clouds. Some other blue thing that was really, really blue.
“You’re staring at me in a way that makes me wish I had Mace or pepper spray or a Taser. I don’t usually say the word ‘testicles’ in church. But if you don’t blink soon, yours will be kicked into your abdomen.”
Axel shook his head, snapping out of his stupor. “No, don’t. I’m sorry. I’m lost. You startled me. My name is—” He needed a name. “My name is Christian. Fletcher Christian.” Axel winced at his new name. That’s why you plan and don’t do things impulsively. “I don’t work here. I was. This is going to sound—I was in the parking lot at my job downtown. The Lord spoke to me. He told me to come here. To offer my help. I’m not sure how or why or what, but when you get the call to action, you act, right?”
“Right,” she said, backing up another step, quite possibly to get into proper nut-punting range for full leg extension.
“I sound crazy. Do I sound crazy? I do. It’s not like God has ever told me to do anything before. This was a first for me.”
“He told you to come here and do what?”
“I don’t know. Help. I was in the crowd out there. Looking for a sign. Felt as out of place as a fat guy named Ichabod. Figured someone back here might show me some direction.”
“Come with me,” she said. “I can help you.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much. You’re an angel.”
He walked down the hall with her, trying to think of something to say. Everything that came into his head sounded stupid, so, in a rare first, he kept his mouth shut. He could ask her to marry him later.
“Here we are,” she said, opening a door.
Axel followed her into a big room. Ten young men and women sat around a table covered with envelopes and slips of paper. A laptop open in front of each of them. The men and women alternated between reading slips of papers, typing into the computers, and closing their eyes and briefly praying.
“This is the prayer request room. It’s where all volunteers start. Whether God told them to come here or not.” She winked. “They get so many prayer requests that the crew has to work around the clock.”
“Is that kosher?” Axel said. “Don’t people think that Brother Floom or Reverend Whitlock is reading them? That’s what I thought.”
“Too many,” she said. “It’s more of a gesture anyway. God hears all prayers regardless. He’s God.” She waved over an eighteen-year-old with bad acne. “Tobias will show you what to do. Brother Floom thanks you for your service.”
“But,” Axel said.
“Tobias, this is Fletcher. A new volunteer.” And she was gone, leaving Axel standing in a room of teenage and twentysomething Christians who looked happier than sober people should.
He took the only empty chair. Tobias set a stack of envelopes and a laptop in front of him. He smiled, revealing braces. “It’s easy. Open the envelope, and separate any cash or checks. Then read the letter, enter the name and address in the form on the screen, and pray for whatever the request is for. If it isn’t clear, a general wellness prayer will do.”
Axel got to work. Most of the requests were what you would expect. Mother’s hip surgery. Struggle with alcoholism. The bank is foreclosing. Fletcher Christian prayed over those letters, doing his level best to take the job seriously. Axel figured that even if he had lost some of his religion, his character was a true believer. God would understand. He wouldn’t punish the innocent for Axel’s deception.
“I have a question.” Axel waved Tobias over. “I put these to the side. I got one here that’s requesting I pray for the eradication of all Muslims on the planet. Rather violently. And another one about turning a gay son straight. What do I do with those?”
“Give me the Muslim one,” Tobias said. “The gay son you can pray on. God will help.”
Axel didn’t argue, but if God wanted to do something about the gay kid, he could figure it out on his own.
CHAPTER 16
Kurt watched Louder walk in a circle around his sparsely furnished room. He lay on his air mattress lazily strumming his guitar.
“So the way I see it,” Louder said, “I can either find a place in Warm Springs—Pepe offered me the other half of the garage he sleeps in, which was sweet but horrifying—or I can go to a community college that’ll take me and focus on the ethnomusicology degree I’ve been talking about since junior year.”
“You should totally do that,” Kurt said. “You’re the smartest person I know.”
“Are you going to stay here?” Louder asked. “Not here here, but in San Diego?”
“I don’t know,” Kurt said, setting down the guitar. “I got stuff I got to do, but after that I don’t know. You and Pepe are all that’s left for me in Warm Springs.”
“There’s Dairy Queens up here. Grossmont College will take anyone. If you ain’t coming back, I ain’t either. We’d have to work on Pepe so we can continue to Skinrip, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” Kurt said.
Louder shoved Kurt to the side. “Move over.”
Kurt shifted to the edge of the bed, and Louder lay down next to him. They stared at the ceiling.
“How you doing?” Louder asked. “You know, with all the other stuff. With your mom. With the rest of your family. With everything.”
“I can still hear Mom’s voice sometimes. Usually scolding me in some way. Telling me what to do. I used to be able to finish Mom’s sentences. I miss the old house. This place is big, but weird-shaped. It’s like it’s built to look at, not live in.”
“Yeah,” Louder said. “All the houses on this street are freaky. Like the location for a movie that Gwyneth Paltrow would recommend on her website.”
“It sounds weird, but I miss sneaking around to play music. It felt dangerous.”
“Seems like it’s dangerouser now. Learning how to drive a getaway car. You’re going to have to show me some of your moves.” Louder looked at her watch. “I got to go, K. Let’s do band practice this week. Pepe’s good for Wednesday or Thursday.”
“Cool,” Kurt said.
“Cool.” Louder rolled off the air mattress and hopped to her feet. She grabbed her backpack and with a smile and a wave left the room. He heard her stomping down the stairs and out the front door.
Kurt wasn’t sure how much of a bad boy he was, but he couldn’t deny the fact that he was an Ucker. It was God’s decision to make him who he was. He wouldn’t have been born into this family if it hadn’t been his fate.
Since moving to San Diego, Kurt filled his day with distractions. When he was alone and had time to think, he got sad and confused and fearful of the future. Time might heal his wounds, but it didn’t mean they didn’t hurt when he was still bleeding. Until a scab formed over the wound, movies and comic books and movies would have to do. He hadn’t just lost his mother. He’d lost their routine.
> “Exercise,” Kurt said, standing up and heading out of the room. He had started walking every day, exploring the neighborhood, clearing his head, and trying to come up with a plan for the next thirty years. The idea of a push-up or getting on Axel’s exercise equipment held no appeal, but a walk was meditative. He grabbed a sweatshirt, tied it around his waist, and opened the front door.
“Monkey flunker,” he said, almost running into the man standing on the front step and poised to knock.
“Hello, Kurt.” The man’s voice was surprisingly high for his size. A mezzo-soprano in a baritone body. It took a second, but Kurt recognized him.
“I know you,” Kurt said. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the man in the Lincoln that had followed them, but how many people were completely bald and wore fake eyebrows? One eyebrow was cocked in a way that made the man look like a semicolon-face emoticon.
Confirming Kurt’s suspicions, the man flashed a badge in Kurt’s face. “Special Agent Harold Cronin. Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need to talk.”
“Am I under arrest? What did I do? Am I in trouble? Do you have a warrant? I want a lawyer. I didn’t do anything. I have rights.” Kurt tried to control the quaver in his voice, but law enforcement had always made him nervous. Maybe it was his Ucker blood.
“Have you done something that would warrant getting arrested?” Cronin asked. “Or any of those other actions? Are you confessing to a crime?”
Kurt felt sweat pour from the back of his head down to the small of his back. He steeled himself as best he could, trying to remember how horribly law enforcement had treated his mother. He would never forgive them, including this jerk. He wouldn’t give the G-man an inch. If you can’t be brave, pretend to be brave. If that doesn’t work, be a smart aleck.
“Yes, I want to confess to a crime,” Kurt said. “In my youth, I wasn’t kind. I didn’t rewind. Is that in your purview, or more of an FCC-jurisdiction kind of thing?”