by Jamie Metzl
King rode the Christian agenda all the way to the US Senate, the evangelical army, Cobalt Becker at its head, charging behind him all the way. King pushed legislation that promoted school prayer, sought to restrict stem cell, cloning, and biotechnology research, tried to block the use of chimeric embryos in research, funded a national media campaign to encourage people to have children through good old-fashioned sex rather than by genetic selection at IVFGS clinics. His fiery rhetoric reignited an evangelical passion previously thought by many Americans to have dimmed and created the environment where secretive evangelical militants like Eden’s Army began to thrive. Evangelicals running for slots in local school boards is part of the democratic process, but Eden’s Army operatives infiltrating local health systems or even federal government agencies to undermine critical research, was quite another. And that was the gentle stuff.
No one could technically blame King for the bombings and violent protests attributed to these evangelical operatives who fashioned themselves as modern Knights Templar defending the True Faith, but it was abundantly clear that the ideology and political force of his movement had been shifting the American landscape well before the 2020 attacks.
The original Mrs. Becker seems to have vanished from the scene in the groundbreaking photo as a new woman, younger and slimmer, appears in the background.
The last image in the series, with minor changes, could have been from Rolling Stone. Viewed from the back of the church, Becker stands triumphantly with one microphoned arm in the air. The congregation is on its feet with the energy from the stage pulsating through their hands. He has arrived.
The series is designed to impress and I’m feeling it as a heavily made-up woman looking to be in her forties marches toward me purposefully.
“Mr. Azadian,” she declares pointedly, “I am Rebecca Stevenson, assistant to Revered Becker.”
I stand up.
“Please sit down. Miss Taylor tells me you are here investigating the death of a member of our congregation.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Azadian, can you tell me the name of the congregant to whom you are referring?”
“MaryLee Stock.”
“We have over fifteen thousand members of this congregation and the death of any of our family, in spite of what comes next, is a cause of sadness. What can we do for you, Mr. Azadian?” She speaks officiously and without emotion. Her constant repetition of my name feels somehow creepy.
“I’d like to speak with Reverend Becker,” I say.
“Mr. Azadian,” she says again, “as you can appreciate, Reverend Becker is a very busy man.”
“Yes, but it’s important I speak with him.”
“If you will please leave me your card I will let you know when the Reverend might be available.”
The shopping center sanctimoniousness of this place begins to get to me. “Look,” I say sharply, “a member of this church is dead and I’m trying to figure out why. I drove here from Kansas City and,” I soften my tone, “I’d like to speak with Reverend Becker.”
“Mr. Azadian,” she replies brusquely, barely masking her annoyance, “most everyone who lives in this state is a member of one church or another. I will make this request. We will get back to you. Thank you.” She opens the door and walks forcefully across the foyer.
I follow her. “Excuse me,” I press. “I’m sorry to bother you. This story is coming out soon and I can write that you are being cooperative or I can write that you are not.” I know I’m taking a leap but can’t think of anything better to do.
Rebecca Stevenson stops in her tracks and turns toward me, barely suppressing the anger on her face. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Azadian?”
“I’m trying to figure out what happened and I need to speak with Reverend Becker.”
If I’d been less agitated I might have noticed the shadow approaching from my left. Instead, I’m startled when I hear the familiar bass.
“Shalom, friend.”
I’ve come to his home, but I’m still surprised to encounter him. I’ve seen his image so many times but never met him in person. He is bigger than I’d imagined, his face rounder, his silver mane more lion-like. His masculine presence radiates through the room. I’m speechless.
“You are here to discuss MaryLee Stock?” Cobalt Becker booms.
My mouth shifts to form words that don’t come.
8
“It’s a terrible, terrible tragedy,” Becker says, opening a side door. “Please step in to my office.”
As Rebecca Stevenson steps away obsequiously, I pause for a moment, still stunned, before following Becker.
His spacious office is tastefully decorated with more framed photographs of him with famous people and various Christian images. Something inexplicable triggers a sense of alert in my mind.
“Please, have a seat,” he says. His voice is strangely reassuring.
The plush ivory sofa almost swallows me in its softness. My mind whirls, trying to figure out what’s bothering me.
“Mr. Azadian”—Becker’s eyes bear into mine—“I’m glad you are here.”
My Wizard of Oz images flow together. Becker the Wizard, Becker the Lion, Becker the Witch—which one? I’d come thinking West. In his presence, I find myself melting toward East.
“You are?” I reply, dumbfounded.
“Of course. I learned of MaryLee’s death yesterday. It is a terrible tragedy that someone so young, with such promise, could be taken from us so prematurely.”
I nod like an idiot.
“God must have a higher purpose for her,” Becker continues, “perhaps one we can never understand.”
Becker’s words trouble me. “I don’t know, Reverend,” I say delicately. “I actually saw her dead body yesterday.” The body on the apartment floor didn’t look to me like a contribution to any cosmic master plan.
I’m not sure why I add the part about the body. Whatever the reason, I notice a shift in his energy, as if the champ has taken a blow to the stomach but knows he shouldn’t show it hurts.
Becker crosses his legs and places his hands together on his lap, fingers interlocked. He looks distracted for a moment then regains his composure. “MaryLee was a special girl. She and her mother have been congregants here from the beginning.”
The mention of her mother jolts my recognition. My head turns toward an image of Mary and Jesus in a golden frame behind Becker’s desk. The blue shawl over Mary’s face captures the light shining up from baby Jesus’s halo. Her pale skin and white clothing embody an essence of purity within the darker blue shades that form the edges of the painting.
Becker notices my shifting attention. “It’s who we are,” he says.
My face registers I’m not following.
“That painting. It shows the purity in all of us that can shine when we open ourselves to the illumination of Jesus.”
“I see,” I say softly.
Becker eyes me suspiciously as I stand and walk over to the painting.
“It’s a nice painting,” I say slowly, “and this box?” My hands tremble slightly as I reach down toward the gold clasp on the cherry box.
From the corner of my eye I see Becker jump up and move quickly in my direction.
I open the clasp and swing open the lid before he reaches me. The box is lined with red velvet. In the middle rests a small golden ball, with sections for what look like white stones on one side of the ball and brown stones on the other.
Becker slows down and regains his composure. “It’s gold, frankincense, and myrrh,” he says calmly.
“The gifts of the wise men brought to Mary and Joseph.”
“I see you know your Bible, Mr. Azadian,” Becker says with a half smile, “there may be hope for you yet.”
“MaryLee Stock had the same box and the same picture in her house.”
“I know,” he says calmly. “We gave them to her as gifts when she started graduate school.”
“Is that something you normally do?�
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“Sometimes. Why do you ask?”
I change the subject. “I was in Kansas City yesterday and met your associate, Reverend DeWitt.”
“Yes,” Becker says, “I sent him there to look after Carol Stock.”
“You do that normally, too?”
“Sometimes,” Becker says again, this time with a slight edge. “Are you getting at something?”
“Just trying to get a fuller picture of her. MaryLee was adopted, yes?”
Becker starts to look annoyed, then tilts back his head and takes a deep breath. “MaryLee has been part of the community since childhood.”
“Can you tell me more about her adoption?”
“Nothing really to tell.”
“Were you involved in it?”
“What exactly do you mean, Mr. Azadian?”
“All Blessings International. I understand that you were on their board,” I say, throwing out another strange coincidence Joseph had sent me during my drive to Springfield.
“I was,” Becker says coolly, “and the significance of that?”
“I’m just trying to learn as much about MaryLee as I can. Did you have any role in MaryLee’s adoption?”
“Not really. Carol asked me for my counsel and I connected her with All Blessings. She adopted the child.”
“From Romania?”
“You obviously know the answer to that question, Mr. Azadian. Many children were being adopted from Romania then, just like so many are being adopted from Bangladesh today. These things seem to go in waves.”
“Were you involved with MaryLee as a child?” I ask clumsily.
“Why are you asking me these questions, Mr. Azadian?”
“I’m trying to learn more about who MaryLee Stock was.”
“She was a member of the flock, an active member of our youth group, a special girl, smart, athletic, kind.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Around three months ago. She was home visiting her mother at the end of the summer and dropped by.”
“Did you notice anything different about her at that time?”
“Such as?” Becker says curtly.
“Like she was sick in some way?”
“I didn’t.”
“Anything different than what you’d seen previously?”
“What are you getting at, Mr. Azadian?” Becker says sharply, his voice projecting a sense of pity for me. “If you have something to say, say it. MaryLee Stock’s death is a cause of sadness. Her life is a cause of celebration. She is now with Our Father.” He pauses to let his words sink in before speaking. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Azadian.”
I nod.
“What do you think happened to MaryLee? How do you think she . . . passed?” he says in a softer tone.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “It’s not natural for a young, seemingly healthy woman to just die. They’re doing an autopsy, but we won’t know the results for a few days.”
“I see,” he says calmly before standing. “I ask that you let me know if you learn anything more about MaryLee. Thank you for your visit.”
As he begins to move toward the door I remain where I am.
“Reverend,” I say, “I have a few more questions, and I’d like to get another quote from you, if I may.”
Becker does not move back in my direction. “I just have a few moments, Mr. Azadian.”
“I learned from a friend of hers that MaryLee once said she felt a lot of pressure being the ‘chosen one.’ Do you have any idea what that might mean?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” Becker says without inflection, his impatience with my refusal to leave growing. “All who believe are chosen by God.”
“What can you tell me about Carol Stock?”
Becker sighs. “Carol is a fine woman.”
“Was she a good mother?”
“Our church has a long history of pious mothers—Sarah, Rachel, Hannah, Ruth.”
“And she was one?”
“In that spirit,” he says as if speaking to a child.
I nod like one.
“This is a time of mourning for Mrs. Stock, of shiva,” Becker continues. “I think it best for her to be left in peace. The Lord has taken MaryLee Stock. We can never fully understand his ways, and our sadness is tempered by our absolute faith in God’s plan. You can use that as your quote, Mr. Azadian.”
I want to ask Becker about politics, about abortion and the stem cell debate, about his relationship with Senator King, about where the line between religion and politics should be drawn, but my time is clearly running out.
“Will you preside at the funeral?”
The same blank look flashes across his face for the briefest of moments before his magnanimous composure returns. “I don’t know, Mr. Azadian. Bless you.” He reaches out his hand.
As I take it, my resolve suddenly disappears. I feel almost overwhelmed by him, uncontrollably sucked into his irresistible orbit. “Thank you, Reverend,” I say. I have no idea where my words are coming from.
I rush out the door feeling like an asshole.
9
Stumbling through the parking lot, I feel the irrepressible need to get away from the strange power of Cobalt Becker, to breathe the Kansas City air still trapped in my car to remind me who I am.
What happened there? I ask myself. What came over me?
I take three deep breaths, look out on the garish architecture and the real me resurfaces. The errant synapses fire through my mind, failing to connect but leaving me with an embryonic sense of unease.
I put in my earbud and tap speed dial 3 on my u.D. Joseph’s face pops onto my dashboard screen.
“Start digging deeper on Cobalt Becker,” I say.
“How do you mean, boss?”
“I don’t know. Find out about his past, his businesses, his relationships. See what can find behind the headlines.”
“Um, okay. Yes, boss. I’ll see what I can do.”
I recognize that my request is not at all focused. “What else did you learn?”
“Well, for one, 3927 doesn’t appear to be the last four digits of MaryLee Stock’s credit card number.”
“And you know this because?”
Joseph sighs. “Because I called the phone company and they wouldn’t let me in to the account.”
“And the surveillance cameras, can we get the feeds?”
“UMKC needs a warrant. Corner Drug says they don’t share.”
“Joseph,” I say, “do me a favor. Call Corner Drug and say that your blue Kia Curve was broken into when you were parked there two days ago but you didn’t realize it until you got home. Tell them that it happened at around 4:40 p.m. Okay?”
“Yes, boss,” he says, I’m sure wondering whether a stupid US visa is really worth this aggravation.
The connection drops.
I lean back and take a deep breath. My mind flips through the disparate clues, arranging and rearranging them, waiting for something to pop.
A girl dies. So what? People die all the time. We’re born. We kick around for a while. We die leaving scant trace. But who can comprehend the ultimate vastness of time and space, maybe it’s enough to treasure the meaning we have, every part of it, every life.
As the strange coincidences pile up, something nags at me, makes me feel increasingly obsessed with adding up the pieces of a lost life to see if anything closer to a coherent or even semi-coherent narrative can be put together. The world may be shattered, but what would it mean to be able to piece a small part of it together?
I tap my u.D to direct me to the Stock house and pull out of the Holy Virgin driveway. Left on Holy Virgin Lane, right on Broad Street, left on Summit Drive. From Virgin to Broad, I think to myself, a quick fall from grace.
The small and rectangular house reminds me of Toni’s parents’ place in Independence, Missouri. The image of Toni, as usual, starts a cascade in my mind.
How could any two even moderately well-developed
adults ever be matched, I wonder. I understand completely how my grandparents had done it in Ottoman times. When you’re fifteen and in an arranged marriage, life is not so complicated. You are a stem cell that can grow in thousands of different directions and encounter a vast number of possible matches. When you are thirty-nine with a lifetime of opinions, preferences, delusions, aspirations, fantasies, habits, ideals, idiosyncrasies, and tastes, when you’ve become comfortable with a life of semi-sociable solitude, you are like a toenail cell, just doing your thing over and over again and increasingly unsuited for compromise.
Maybe the Christians had it right, I think. All of this relationships stuff is challenging. Maybe it’s better to find a sweet virgin, let God plant a magic seed in her, and poof, you’ve got a messiah. It seems a lot easier than dating.
As I begin my drive back to Kansas City, the errant synapses begin to connect, first slowly then with greater and greater intensity. Holy Virgin Church of Christ, MaryLee’s sickness, the package of women’s vitamins in MaryLee’s apartment, the look on Becker’s face when I’d mentioned the dead body, frankincense and myrrh, the “chosen one,” Becker’s masculine energy. Could it be? The idea seems far-fetched.
I tap my u.D frenetically. “Universal image search. Keywords: gold, frankincense, myrrh, box, golden clasp, red velvet.” The exact image is the fourteenth option on Alibaba popping up on my dashboard screen. The ultimate box for welcoming the Messiah, made with Jerusalem Cedar and 24 karat gold. Somehow I am not surprised when I see the price: $29,950.
How many of those are you giving away, Cobalt Becker? I ask myself.
Now my mind is on fire. “What did Becker say about Carol Stock?” I say aloud. “She was from a history of pious mothers like Sarah, Rachel, and Hannah.” My time in the principal’s office detracted from my learning in Sunday school, but wasn’t Hannah the mother of Virgin Mary?
I tap speed dial 3 on my u.D.
“Yes, boss,” he says, with even more exasperation.