“Then don’t ask me to go see him.”
“He’s a different man. He and his family want to buy a house in Ann Arbor. He’s living at the Rock House house until one comes through for him.”
“God forbid!”
“He needs support. People to show up and cheer him on.”
“Cheer him on? We should stop him!” Had Rocky forgotten that Ezekiel Thunder had fallen as hard as many of his televangelist contemporaries in the eighties—and for a tawdry tryst with a young intern? May it never be!
“How hard would it be for you to sit there and listen? Maybe say a few prayers for him.”
“God bless you as you do that for him.”
“I was there for you, supporting Great Lakes Seminary when they were struggling and going to lose their building. I did it because of how much you love Mason May.”
“Rocky! That’s not even comparable. Mason is a fine theologian who trains good men and women for powerful, effective ministries. He’s not a snake-oil peddler.”
“It’s not snake oil. It’s miracle prosperity oil.”
I stared at him. He’d stunned me to silence once again. I waited for Rocky to fill the silence with testimonies about the healing properties of miracle prosperity oil. Thankfully, he refrained. But he didn’t look like he’d let me off the hook.
I tried to reason with him. “You shouldn’t ask me to do this. You’re Emergent, Rocky, not a dyed-in-the-wool charismatic.”
“You don’t like postmodern, postdenominational, Emergent folks, either.”
“I like them more than I like Ezekiel Thunder.”
“What’s that thing you say about the Emergent church?”
“This is not about the Emergent church. I’d go to an Emergent meeting with you anytime. You name the place: Mars Hill, Ann Arbor Vineyard. How ’bout Frontline Church?”
He didn’t budge. “Come on, babe. He’s like a dad to me.”
“A dad?”
“You always say Mason is like a dad to you.”
“But Mason has a PhD. He doesn’t sell ‘miracle prosperity oil.’”
“Ezekiel doesn’t sell it, either. He gives it away in exchange for a love offering.”
“A considerable love offering, if I remember. It’s plain olive oil he’s pushing to gullible babes in the faith who don’t know any better. How can I support his money-lusting schemes?”
“Ummm. By going with me?” Hope burgeoned in his voice as if I hadn’t just accused his mentor of being a hustler.
“Did you hear what I said, Rock? Ezekiel Thunder is everything I walked away from.”
“You walked away from a lot more than that, babe. And you’ve been known to hang out with people with worse theology than his. People way more dangerous.”
He had a point.
“Rocky…” I didn’t want to go. Please, God, don’t make me go.
“He’s changed, babe. Give him a chance. For me.”
The eyes again, and a smile with an invisible tail wag.
I grumbled.
He grinned.
I gave him a dramatic sigh. “What time are we leaving?”
“If you’re not busy, and you’re not, we can leave in a few hours. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“How do you know I don’t have plans?”
“Because you have antisocial tendencies.”
“Don’t hold back, Rock. What do you really think about me?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, ignoring my insolence. “You’re gonna fall in love with Ezekiel.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not likely.”
He put his face right in front of mine until we were eye to eye. “You are feeling veeeeeery tired. You’re getting sleepy. You’re going to enjoy yourself at the crusade.”
“No fair,” I said. “Those eyes of yours are potent hypnotizers.”
“You are going to love Ezekiel Thunder.”
“I am going to love Ezekiel Thunder.”
Rocky got out of my face. “You’ve gotta admit, babe. This will be safer than sleuthing.”
No, it won’t, a disembodied voice—also known as the still, small voice of God—informed me.
I tried to ignore it.
Couldn’t ignore it.
What, Lord? Am I some kind of trouble magnet? Don’t answer that, God.
I started rationalizing immediately to take the edge off what I truly hoped was not a prophetic warning. Maybe I could fall in love with the guy and respect him. Maybe he could even heal the egg-size growth on my lower abdomen, which scared me to death each time I ran my index finger across it. Maybe I could even find the keys to unlock the little room inside my heart where all the Ezekiel Thunders I’d ever known were locked. I’d stored them there to keep me safe from the particular brand of harm only they could inflict. Maybe I could forgive them. Finally.
I could feel my defenses shoot up as if propelled by a rocket.
I wished I would fall in love with Ezekiel Thunder.
I shouldn’t have wished. My great-grandmother and namesake, Amanda Bell Brown, used to say, “Be careful what you wish for, baby. You just might get it.”
She ain’t never lied.
chapter two
ROCKY PAID NO ATTENTION to my whining and pouting all the way to the rented building in Inkster where Thunder intended to hold his meetings.
“Why didn’t you let him use the Rock House?”
“I offered, but he wanted to have a central meeting place so his Detroit audience could get to him easier. He’s gonna have more meetings in Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor when he finds a house.”
I wished I’d taken my Love Bug. It had my iPod. I needed comfort. I felt ill at ease to my core about this whole Thunder thing, and my car always enveloped me in a kind of feel-good safety that was difficult to explain.
Rocky’s red pickup truck had an iPod, too, but he didn’t want to listen to it. Instead he wanted to practice a method of relaxing and releasing his thoughts that he termed “contemplative catatonic.”
“I don’t think you should do that while you’re driving, Rock.”
He ignored me.
“I’m not comfortable with the idea of the driver being in an altered and, quite frankly, DSM-IV-scary state of consciousness.”
He roused himself long enough to say, “I’m not really catatonic. I’m a contemplative catatonic person who is driving. You’re completely safe. Now be quiet and go catatonic with me.”
Fortunately, before I had time to zone out, we arrived at our destination. The rambling school building looked condemned. Graffiti adorned the wood covering broken windows and the white brick walls—at least they used to be white. I think.
“This is where Thunder is having his meeting?”
“Cut it out. Don’t be a spiritual elitist. You know what Jesus thought about them.”
“I’m not being an elitist. I just didn’t happen to tuck my hard hat and steel-toed work boots in my purse.”
“Can you be nice? Maybe God will speak to you.”
“I hope He says, ‘heads up,’ before the ceiling caves in.”
“You should be glad if He says anything to you. You certainly don’t spend much time talking to Him.”
“Ouch.”
Rocky got out of the truck and opened the door for me.
“Lock your doors and take your iPod,” I said, stepping out of the car.
“Quit it.”
“Look at this neighborhood. You’re in da ’hood, my friend. Did you notice the huge housing project across the street?”
“It’s just some town houses.”
If he wanted to call the brown-brick two-story burned-out, broken-down, drug-infested horror “just some town houses,” sure. But I didn’t.
“Rocky. Those town houses have a nickname. Little Saigon. I interviewed many of its residents for Dr. Weston when I interned at Wayne County Jail.”
He didn’t lock the doors after he shut mine behind me. Ever the good guy and gentleman, he grabbed my hand.
> “Rock, I’m telling you. Lock up.”
“Whatever is not of faith is sin.”
“I try to protect you, and what do you do? You beat me up with Scripture.”
He ignored me and pulled me toward the building. A few weary sojourners ambled through a set of ancient double doors—psychedelic double doors, now multicolored from the chipping layers of paint. Probably lead paint.
Great. I get to die here in Lead and Asbestos Elementary School.
We walked through doors flanked by two Philistine guards. Where Ezekiel Thunder got the pair of seven-foot-tall mutants was beyond me.
“Hello, gentlemen,” I said. “Nice evening.”
Both growled an unintelligible greeting.
“Whoa,” Rocky said, picking up his pace. He looked at them as if they were truly awesome.
“I don’t think we have to worry now. If my great-grandmother could see those two, she’d say they could kill a brick.”
“He didn’t use to have bodyguards.”
“Maybe the father of that intern he took advantage of is looking for him.”
“That’s not funny, babe.”
“No, it isn’t. And don’t call me babe.”
We followed crude handwritten signs down a long hallway with old-fashioned coat hooks halfway down the walls. It was like walking through a ghost town. I could imagine the children who’d once roamed the halls. My ache for a child burst into my consciousness. “God, have mercy.”
Rocky stopped short. “What is it, babe?” He stood in front of me and cradled my elbows. His kind eyes looked into mine.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
A fine mist of sadness had settled over me. “No, Rocky. I’m not fine. Everything that makes me think of children and not being able to have a child upsets me.”
My feelings jumbled inside me, colliding into one another. Joy and grief. Peace and turmoil. Love and walls to guard what was left of my heart. All stirred together.
“And I think I’m feeling emotional because you’re here with me, and you keep calling me babe.” My voice broke without warning.
I had to hold it together. It would be hard enough to revisit my Pentecostal past. I willed the tears to a place of quiet submission. “I’m so happy to be hanging out with you again. And this is so weird because we’re about to see Ezekiel Thunder. It’s been so long since I’ve been to anything like this. And…and…”
Too late. I kept talking and the sorrow I had barely held at bay seeped out. I blubbered all over his Batman T-shirt.
Poor Rocky. He stood there hugging me, rubbing my back, and praying the Ninety-first Psalm from The Message. Just the way I like it.
When he finished, he paused and then said, “Are you okay, babe?”
“WAAAAAAH.”
As we stood there, he stroked my back and the curtain of blond braid extensions I wore. I let him rub and pat the peace into me with the steady rhythm of his hand and his rock-solid love. I held him until my breathing slowed, my heart sighed with relief, and my arms were ready to give Rocky a squeeze—our signal that I was ready to let him go.
“I got snot on your shirt.”
“That’s okay,” Rocky said. “Well, not really; this is my favorite Batman shirt.”
I laughed. “I really, really missed you.”
“Come on. Let’s go get you some miracle prosperity oil.”
“No, thanks.”
“Last chance, babe. I’ll put the love offering in myself. The only thing you have to lose is poverty and lack.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, right.”
He nudged me with his elbow. “You forgot to tell me not to call you babe.”
“I actually liked it that time.”
A smile like sunshine, like a bright new merciful morning, spread across his face. He grabbed my hand. “Let’s not let anything keep us from being friends ever again, okay?”
“Okay, Rock.”
“Shake on it.”
I shook it like a Polaroid picture. He did the same.
We laughed, and I knew that with my husband out of the picture, it wouldn’t be too hard for us to stay friends at all.
With one glance I took in the gymnasium. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. The once wildly popular man of God failed to fill the gym of a tiny, dilapidated school in a ghetto neighborhood. Before I could give any more attention to the disgraced evangelist’s fate, a rabid usher ambushed us, or rather, me.
Honestly, it felt like that old black woman clamped an iron claw around my entire arm. I feared she’d permanently branded her handprint across my biceps. The ancient but incredibly strong old church mother could have been my own great-grandmother, Ma Brown. Only Ma Brown was prettier. And less vicious. And smelled better.
Granny Hook reeked of Chantilly Eau De Toilette. I hadn’t had a whiff of that since puberty. Even then I didn’t think anyone other than adolescent girls wore it. The overpowering scent mingled with the mothballs she must have packed her clothes in and the Altoids on her breath, creating a noxious blend. I could feel myself greening as my gut did a back flip. Either I’d look like Kermit the Frog by the time I got to the seat she was dragging me to, or I’d end up spilling my guts—and not in the “confession that’s good for the soul” way.
Of course, she’d chosen me alone as the focal point of her wrath. My blissed-out pal had smiled at her and skipped ahead to his seat in the VIP section—two pathetic, nearly empty rows in front.
“This way, missy,” the evil usher hissed, with a snort that smacked of her disapproval. It was the race thing. I could just feel it. Rocky and I had been through this too many times before. Not everyone wanted to see Dr. King’s dream of black and white together realized. Still, it wasn’t her business.
Besides, we weren’t a couple anymore, and I happened to be a “mrs.,” not a “missy.” I wanted to say so in an effort to defend myself against her snark, but I figured she’d really do me bodily harm if I had the audacity to be that brazen. As it was, she kept looking from me to Rocky. Her disapproval burned into me. Or was that heartburn? I couldn’t tell.
“He’s my pastor. Sort of.” I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t necessarily replaced him.
That infuriated Granny Hook even more and elicited a tighter squeeze. She brought her face close to mine. “You ain’t got no business goin’ round with yo’ pastor, hussy.”
Why did everyone find that idea appalling? Did somebody publish a church etiquette book stating that under no circumstances should one date her pastor? Did I miss a memo? And did that old bat just call me a hussy?
“Look, lady, I’m married. To someone else.”
She glared at me. That did it. I could see my sinner status grow exponentially in her glassy eyes. I had become the whore of Babylon.
I tried to wrench myself from her grip to go sit with Rocky, but the guerrilla grandma yanked me to the center of the gymnasium. “Demon,” she hissed.
“Look, I know you and I didn’t get off on the right foot, but I hardly think—”
“Shush.”
I shushed.
Granny got very close to me. “You foul demon of interracial dating and adultery, come out in Jesus’ name.”
“What? Demon of inter—”
“Shut up.” She slammed her open palm against my forehead.
“Ow! Lady!”
Must not have been the response she wanted. “Come out!”
Just then a few more faithful joined her in casting out my interracial-dating-and-adultery demon. I briefly wondered if that was one demon or two.
“Listen, everybody, I’m not possessed. I’m not even dating, interracially or otherwise.”
This didn’t sit well with Granny Hook. She pulled me to the front of the auditorium as if she were my mother threatening to give me a beatdown.
A cameraman, his camera mounted on a huge tripod with wheels, came over to us. I noticed Hook had strategically marched me up to stand in front of the Plexiglas podium
with the new Ezekiel “Son of Thunder” Crusade logo. At the same time, a very well dressed man, much shorter than the giants that greeted us at the door, stuck a microphone in my face.
Grandma Hook spat her words at me. “You lyin’ demon! Name yourself.”
“I don’t have a demon.”
“Name yourself!” She grabbed my shoulders and gave me a brain-rattling shake.
“I’m Amanda!” I certainly wasn’t going to let her call me Bell.
“Liar!”
I started fishing around in my purse for my driver’s license. I could hear someone call out from the audience, “Uhn-uh. Them demons be lyin’. Don’t wanna lose they home. Gon’ and cast it out, Sister Lou.”
Sister Lou snatched my purse away from me and threw it onto the floor, no doubt for effect.
“Come out!” Her spittle showered my face. She gripped my head with her talons digging into my forehead. Honestly, her laying on of hands almost gave me a migraine, and I could feel slimy spit gliding down my cheeks like a bunch of slugs.
Not good.
Suddenly my poor stomach rebelled. Her Chantilly oh-the-toilet. The sludge that flew out of her mouth. Her green apple Altoid breath. All that laying on of hands.
One last command from Sister Lou and Company for the devil to come out, and something altogether different exploded out of queasy me. I hurled. In a big way. I’m not talking a dainty little gag. I mean I projectile vomited like a young Linda Blair puking up torrents of split-pea soup in The Exorcist. And they were filming me!
I wanted to cry out in protest but my retching required total participation. Sister Lou grabbed my braids and continued to rebuke and cast out, laying her iron hand all over my poor head.
“Ohhhhh,” I moaned, looking down at a pair of alligator shoes. Very expensive shoes.
My head snapped up, probably because Sister Lou yanked me by the braids in that direction. Suddenly I found myself standing face-to-face with Ezekiel Thunder, the last of a dying breed of televangelists.
My first impression: Wowza! Tall, thin, and wickedly handsome, the mahogany-colored dreamboat with a slightly portly belly—probably from too many after-church fried-chicken dinners—looked amazing for a man who had to be sixtyish. A legend stood before me—a man as well-known as R. W. Schambach or T. D. Jakes. Fiery. Devil chasin’. Sin hatin’. Except for when it came to his personal sin, apparently.
Deadly Charm Page 2