Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “Pastor Saint! How are you doing today?” Tasha, the young receptionist at Holy Ghost Tabernacle, smiled up at him.

  “Charlie’s got you working on Sunday afternoon now?” He shook his head slowly. “That’s reprehensible. I’ll talk to him for you.”

  “Don’t mess this up for me,” she warned. “He’s letting me skip out tomorrow and Tuesday to visit my sister.”

  Parker laughed. “I won’t say a word. Is the Right Reverend in by chance?”

  “Nothing’s by chance, but yes, Pastor Watkins is in his office. I’ll tell him you’d like to see him.” She held a brief exchange through her headset. “He’ll be out in just a second,” she chirped. “How’s the church coming along? I heard you were up near five thousand last week.”

  “We’re getting there. I keep telling Charlie he should come out on a Sunday and show them how real preaching is done.”

  “I’m afraid I have a standing engagement on Sunday mornings, Parker.” Charles stood in the doorway to his expansive office and beckoned his friend. “But I have a few minutes for you now. Come on in. And Tasha, are you done filing those quarterly reports?”

  “Almost done, Pastor.”

  “I see. And I see you filing your nails in the reflection on the window.”

  Her smile disappeared. “I was just, um, taking my break from before, because—”

  “It’s okay. Just try to have it done before the evening service, okay?”

  Charles closed the door and motioned for Parker to have a seat on a black leather couch, while he took a chair on the far side of a stylish coffee table.

  “I hope this is just a social call, Parker.” He smiled broadly, causing his brown skin to crinkle a bit around his eyes. He could have been fifty or seventy. Parker guessed closer to the latter.

  “Yes, partially. I also brought this.” He slid an envelope across to his friend.

  “That’s not necessary. I’ve told you.”

  “This should cover their share of the utilities for a few more months and the use of whatever rooms they’re occupying.”

  “Parker, we’re happy to have them here. And I’m happy to do you the favor. What has become of the body of Christ if one church can’t open her doors to another when they lose their building?” He chuckled. “Even if they are Presbyterians.”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “Young man, do you remember when Holy Ghost Tabernacle had that fire? It was probably twenty years ago. We’d been meeting in a leaky little building on Division that used to be a barbershop.”

  “I remember. I was a teenager. It was just before my grandfather died. You lost everything.”

  “Not everything, Parker. The church was untouched. We just lost a building. But my point is that your father reached out to me and offered to let us meet at Hope Presbyterian while we found a new facility. Four other churches made the same offer. We wound up in with some Baptists a block away.”

  “And that was nice of my father, but this situation may be more permanent, Charlie. Hope Presbyterian is dying. It’s slowly shrinking toward nothing.”

  “You aren’t to blame for that, Parker.”

  “I know. It’s not guilt. It’s compassion. I care about these people. Did you know I met with a banker when they lost the building, to see if I could get a loan and pay off their mortgage?”

  “No, but that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Well, after my book comes out, I may be able to do just that—get the building back for them. In the meantime, if you won’t take the money today, I’ll just mail the church a cashier’s check.”

  Charlie handed the envelope back to Parker. “Give it to Tasha. At least she can give you a tax receipt, and you can write it off.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  “It’s no problem. But next time I see you, it had better be for some real fellowship.”

  “You got it.”

  “Good. You may be getting big, but you’re never too big-time for old Charlie.”

  Dinner was in the oven, some smooth jazz on the stereo, and Isabella Escalanté looked more put together than she had in weeks. She glanced at her watch. It was 8:43 p.m. Leon had promised he’d be there by a quarter to nine, but there was still construction on I-96, so she had her doubts.

  She hadn’t seen her boyfriend in nearly a month. Leon’s decision to tackle eighteen credit hours this semester was already taking its toll. Rather than commute every day, he’d gotten an apartment in Ann Arbor, near campus. They’d been talking every night on the phone, telling each other it would be worthwhile when he got his degree almost a year early, but that did nothing to ease her pain now.

  She turned up the stereo. Jazz was best appreciated at low levels, but the woman in the apartment downstairs was half deaf, and her television continually blared judge shows. Always judge shows, as if she had access to some all-judge-shows satellite channel. At first this had annoyed Isabella to no end, but considering the paper-thin walls, she had come to appreciate the “cover” it provided and the accompanying sense of privacy for the other three units in the building.

  The intercom buzzed, and she ran to the bathroom door to give herself one last check. She was more than satisfied with what she saw. Another buzz. She laughed. Leon had somehow lost the third key she’d given him, and still it came off as a lovable quirk.

  “Come on up, baby,” she said into the intercom and buzzed him in. She opened the door just a crack and then assumed the pose she’d practiced in the mirror that morning—head tilted and knees together like a magazine cover girl. She wished the only door to her apartment didn’t enter into the kitchen—she was certain she could look more glamorous in the living room—but she’d make the best of it. Besides, the curried chicken smelled perfect, Ramsey Lewis was coming from the speakers, and she could barely even hear the two former best friends suing and countersuing each other over a car they’d bought together.

  She heard footsteps coming up.

  And then a man she’d never seen before walked into her apartment. He was the opposite of Leon in almost every way. Slim, white, ugly, dressed all in black with long, dark hair falling in his eyes. His standing there in her kitchen was so unexpected and bizarre that it took a moment for the panic to set in.

  “Who are you?” was all she could get out.

  “Hello to you too, Bella.” He spoke softly, a strange combination of comforting and cruel.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “But I know you. I’ve been getting to know you for a while now.”

  He took a step toward her. Her heart was thudding so hard she could feel it in the tips of her toes.

  He sniffed the air. “Is that some kind of pork dish I smell?”

  “Chicken,” she whispered. She was thinking of her cell phone, plugged into the charger next to her bed. The man took another step toward her.

  Isabella ran to her right and pivoted, turning toward the door. She’d been a basketball player in high school and could move when she needed to. But not in heels.

  The man caught her easily and shoved her back into the kitchen. “I just got here,” he said with a malicious grin. “Where are your manners?”

  “My—my boyfriend will be here any minute.” Her voice sounded foreign to her. “I think I hear him now. Leon!” she shouted. The word melted into the music behind her and the empty hallway below.

  She tried to think clearly, to channel her fear into anger. “He’s huge. He can bench-press four hundred pounds. And he’s got a temper. If he finds some goblin-lookin’ white boy in here bothering me, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  “That’s an interesting prospect. What would he do?” The man reached into his black trench coat and pulled out a shiny black knife with a diamond-shaped blade.

  “He carries a gun,” she sobbed. “My boyfriend does. I’m not kidding.”

  “I know he does. Leon Price, third-year senior at the University of Michigan, studying criminal justice. Smart kid, thinks he’s already a c
op and carries a Glock 17 in his waistband, right about here.” He pointed to his side.

  “How do you know that?”

  The man slammed the door shut and threw the dead bolt. His face darkened and his body tensed. “We know that because we’ve done our homework. We’re very precise about what we do. We need you to know that. The papers will call this random, but we’ve planned every last detail. You were dead when you woke up this morning, Bella.”

  Isabella threw the sugar bowl in his face and lunged for the knife block on the counter, coming away with a long, serrated steak knife. “Stay away from me.”

  The man smiled. “This is priceless.” Isabella’s hands were shaking. “Well, don’t just stand there. Use it,” he urged, striding toward her. She held the knife up with both hands and closed her eyes tight, crying. A moment later she felt her arm twist roughly behind her back. The knife fell to the floor, and she went sailing into two chairs.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Leon!” she shouted, reaching out and barely making contact with the button. The intruder slammed her back to the floor. “Leon!”

  The man pointed the knife at her and covered her mouth. “Will young Leon be joining us this evening? This just keeps getting more interesting.”

  It buzzed again. Then Leon’s voice: “Bella, are you there? I lost my key, baby. Buzz me in.”

  “You’re in trouble now,” she said. “You should just leave. Go down the back stairs. I promise you, he’ll kill you if he finds you in here.”

  There was a loud thud from below. They both paused and listened to the stifled sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, then a pounding on the door. “Isabella? Are you in there? Is everything all right?”

  She tried to shout his name, but the man had his hand on her throat. All she could hear was the TV downstairs. Those stupid judge shows.

  And then nothing.

  THREE

  EVERT CARLSON COULD NEVER JUST MEET WITH SOMEONE—HE always had to “break bread” with them. Evert preferred Chinese restaurants, so there was usually no bread per se, but “breaking egg rolls” just didn’t have the same ring to it.

  Parker had agreed to meet him for an early lunch Monday at the Ming Tree, a small family-owned restaurant in downtown Grand Rapids. Evert was in his late seventies, retired for almost fifteen years, but unlike most of his contemporaries, he hadn’t downgraded to sweatpants and T-shirts. His suit was the same charcoal gray as Parker’s, only thirty years older.

  The waitress had just brought the bill and the fortune cookies on a little plastic tray, which Evert snatched up with surprising speed for a man of his age.

  “My invitation, my treat.”

  Parker knew from experience not to argue. “Thanks, Dr. Carlson.”

  “Call me Ev, boy. You’re making me feel older than I am.” He handed Parker a cookie. “Here. Tell me your fortune.”

  Parker popped open the little plastic pouch and cracked the stale cookie in two. “It says, ‘One who is true is worth three who are wise.’ I don’t know what that even means.”

  Evert frowned. “That’s not a fortune. That’s a nonsensical proverb. You should ask for another one.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “No, really. You should.” His voice was rising, drawing some looks from adjacent diners. “It’s called a fortune cookie, which clearly implies that it contains an actual fortune,” he fumed. “Have you heard of the Michigan Implied Warranty? If you sell me something, it has to do what the name implies. That’s the law.”

  “Calm down, Ev. Look, we can interpret it as a fortune. It’s telling me that I should stay true. Good things will happen if I stay true. That’s a fortune.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Here we go.” Parker sat back in the booth.

  “You brought it up. Are you staying true to who you are?”

  “Yes, I believe I am.”

  “You know who stayed true to his last breath? Your grandfather.”

  “How did I know you were going to bring him up?”

  “He was my mentor during my darkest days, son. And he was my pastor and my best friend, apart from my wife. What do you think Pastor Brian, Sr. would think of the way you’ve gone?”

  Parker sighed. “I know you don’t like big churches, Dr. Carlson. And I know you’ve got some beef with the charismatic camp, but—”

  “You know better than that,” Evert scolded. “You know the friends I’ve had over the years and the partnerships in ministry. I believe that our Pentecostal brothers and sisters bring something to the table that no other tradition can. And I’ve got no problem with megachurches either, if they grow because they’ve focused on proclaiming the gospel—not on scratching people’s itching ears.”

  “And that’s what you think I’m doing.”

  “I don’t know for sure. All I know is that you graduated seminary with a fire lit under you like I’ve never seen. And then that fire was doused with record speed.”

  “My father died, Dr. Carlson. Someone had to take over his ministry, or everything we’d been building for twenty years would have been down the drain.”

  “You may have taken over his ministry empire, but what about the church he pastored? The church that your grandfather pastored for thirty years, the church he brought back from the brink of apostasy and built up into a strong outpost of the kingdom of God? That church is in danger of closing its doors forever, Parker. Aren’t you worried about all of his work having been for naught?”

  “I’m not going to answer to my father or my grandfather, Evert. Or to you. Ultimately, I’m only going to answer to my heavenly father.”

  “Seems to me you mostly answer to that Joshua Holton fellow.”

  “You don’t need to tell me again how you feel about Joshua Holton.”

  “The things that man offers his followers are the same things the devil has been offering since the beginning: wealth, satisfaction, all your dreams coming true right now at your very whim!”

  Parker forced a laugh. “You’re telling me that Joshua Holton is in league with the Prince of Darkness? You’ve obviously never met him.”

  “Met him? Son, I wrote my dissertation on the devil.”

  “I meant Joshua Holton.”

  “Hmm. Maybe not, but I’ve met his type a thousand times. Satan masquerades as an angel of light. That’s basic theology. You know why it was a serpent in the garden of Eden? Not because serpents are gross or slimy—they’re not!—it’s because they’re beautiful. They move seductively. The devil doesn’t look like Anton LaVey or—what’s his name?—Marilyn Manson. The devil looks a lot more like Joshua Holton: slick hair, nice suit, gleaming white smile.”

  “You’re wearing a suit too, sir.”

  “You know what I’m trying to say. I don’t doubt your motives in getting wrapped up with him, Parker. But I worry where it will go. You remind me of the apostle Peter in the Gospels. You want to serve God, but you’re impetuous. You want to do it your way—a way that looks a lot like the world’s idea of success.”

  “I don’t think God dislikes success. Neither does Josh Holton. And he preaches from the same Bible you do.”

  “Even the devil quoted Scripture to Jesus in the wilderness, and twisted it into something that appeals to the flesh.”

  Parker smirked. “I just don’t see the devil waiting around every corner, especially not in a fellow pastor’s ministry.”

  “As I said, you remind me of Saint Peter. It was Peter who wrote that the devil ‘prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.’ And yet, Peter wasn’t ready for the devil when he came as a serpent. You have to be ready for both.”

  “I should get going, Doc.”

  Evert put his hand on Parker’s. “The church needs you. I want you to think about taking this star power of yours and using it for good. Your grandfather’s pulpit—your father’s pulpit—is vacant. You could build that church back up.”

  “Why don’t you take the job? You’re
passionate enough about it.”

  Evert gazed out the window. “My last cardiologist appointment was not encouraging. I don’t have much time left, Parker. I’m a pilgrim nearing the City.”

  Parker’s annoyance with the old man sank away in a moment. “Dr. Carlson, I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, son. I know my only hope in life and death. I’m more worried about you. You’re on the top of the world right now—from the world’s own point of view. It’s when you hit bottom that you’ll understand what Jesus meant about being poor in spirit.”

  Parker looked at the time on his phone. “I have another appointment I have to get to, sir. Thanks for lunch. Let’s get together again soon.”

  “God willing.” He gave Parker’s hand one more squeeze and then began the project of getting up from the booth.

  “Aren’t you going to look at your fortune, sir?”

  Evert shook his head. “Never do. I already know my fortune.”

  Parker left the restaurant and headed up Division at a brisk pace. As he waited for the signal to change at the intersection, he took in the quintessential Grand Rapids corner: three out of four buildings were churches. One bore a large For Sale sign. He felt a twinge of guilt.

  What a strange situation. His home church had lost its building, while dozens of church buildings sat on the market to be grabbed up and either bulldozed or converted into office space. But Joshua Holton had hammered this point home over and again: if you’re going to grow, you need something bigger, something that looks less churchy. Holton had snatched up the bankrupt Fort Worth Civic Center, which he filled to capacity each week. Parker had started smaller, purchasing a shopping center.

  The signal changed. Parker picked up the pace. He couldn’t be late for court.

  Downtown Grand Rapids was inordinately clean and bright. Every third street corner showed visitors their location on a map, a large dotted circle bragging that one was almost always less than a five-minute walk from any other point downtown. Today this worked in Parker’s favor. He sprinted up to the Kent County Courthouse, huffing and panting, with three minutes to spare.