“There are many more details I could add but this, I think, is pretty much the overall picture. I will be glad to discuss any further questions or ideas you may have.”
“Thank you, Mr. Michaels,” Preacher said. He turned to the old man. “You’ve got my head spinning.”
The old man smiled. “I think we’ve thought of everything.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be so nervous if we were starting smaller,” Preacher said. “I’m not Billy Graham. Why should anyone want to come all the way out here to see a nobody?”
“By the time we open you ain’t goin’ to be a nobody. Arrangements are being made right now for you to appear and preach on every major religious television program in America. Not once, but several times. People will know you, all right.”
“But why should any of them put me on the air?” Preacher asked. “Surely I can’t bring them anything they haven’t got already.”
Randle chuckled. “There ain’t one of them who don’t have the shorts one way or t’other. All it takes is money.”
Chapter Eleven
“We have thirty days to get our act together,” Marcus Lincoln said. “Pat Robertson’s ‘700 Club’ is the highest-rated religious TV show in the country. It wasn’t easy to get them to be the first show to put you on.”
Preacher looked at him. “I don’t understand it. I’m a preacher, not an actor.”
“You’re going to have to be both,” Lincoln said.
“‘The 700 Club’ is a talk show. Robertson mixes guests and sermons. If you don’t want to be just another testimonial, we’d better come up with a different kind of approach.”
“Why can’t I tell them how I feel about God?”
“That’s what everybody does. We have to have a theme as well as a different approach. Talk is not enough. Television is a visual medium. Let’s not forget that.”
“I don’t know,” Preacher said.
“Neither do I,” Lincoln added. “That’s why I brought the boys with me. I figure between us we’ll come up with something.”
Preacher looked at the others—Jim Woden, who had directed the filming of the gospel meeting, and Mike Bailey, who had coordinated the script. He shook his head. “God should be enough.”
“With all due respect, Reverend,” Woden said, “not for television. Don’t forget He’s already got a lot of exposure there. You’re the one we have to establish.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Preacher said.
“Supposing we start with you telling us about your life,” Bailey suggested. “In your own words. Maybe we’ll find our theme there.”
Preacher smiled. “It’s really not much. It seems to me that all my life I’ve been searching for a God whose word I can carry to the people.”
Bailey smiled. “That’s a beginning. The theme could very well be ‘Seeking God.’ We could begin with photographs of when you were a boy, then of you in Vietnam, then of you coming out and starting the first Community of God, followed by your decision to hit the gospel trail.”
Preacher laughed aloud. “That sounds great, but I don’t have any photographs.”
“That’s no problem,” Woden said. “I know a couple of photographers that can take care of that.”
“I looked different in those days,” Preacher said. “Most of the time my hair was long and I had a beard. It would take a year to grow that back.”
Woden shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. Wigs, false beard and makeup will take care of it.” He turned to Lincoln. “If that idea appeals to you, let’s try to get up a storyboard on it.”
Lincoln nodded. “Okay. Try it. At least it’s a place to start.”
***
Less than three months later, he sat in the small green room watching Katherine Kuhlman on the monitor as she floated across the stage of the Shrine Auditorium in her billowing white gown to the off-screen mellow voice of the announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen, the world-famous inspirational teacher of the Gospel, Miss Katherine Kuhlman!”
The camera panned the applauding audience, then back to Miss Kuhlman as she smiled at them, slightly bowing, holding her arms over her head, a soft red-leather-covered Bible in one hand. She walked to the small podium just before reaching center stage and placed the Bible on it. She looked out at the congregation as it grew silent. When she finally spoke, it was in a soft gentle voice that the sound system carried throughout the auditorium. But there was an authority in it that held everyone’s attention. She glanced down at the Bible, then up again as the camera moved in close on her face.
“From the First Epistle of John, Chapter Four.
No man hath seen God at any time. If we love one another, God dwelleth in us, and his love is perfected in us.
Hereby know we that we dwell in him, and he in us, because he hath given us of his Spirit.
And we have seen and do testify that the Father sent the Son to be the Savior of the world.
Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him, and he in God.”
She was silent for a moment, then moved slightly away from the podium. “Confess and testify,” she said. “The key words. How many of us have been willing to do that? Not one or the other, but both. Not just once a year, once a month or once a week, but every day of our lives. How many of you upon awakening this morning said to yourself, ‘Jesus is the Son of God, Jesus is my Savior, Jesus died on the cross for my sins and for the sins of all the world’? And then gone down to breakfast and testified that to your wife and to your children?”
Again she was silent looking at them. “Not many of us, I’m afraid,” she said in gently reproving tones. Then her voice lightened. “But today we have a very special young man with us. A young man who has carried the message of God to many strange and difficult places, through the quicksand of sin and corruption, only to find that his strength came not from himself but from the Spirit of God that dwelled in him, and his first thought each morning was to confess and testify that Jesus was his Savior. His story has been an inspiration to me, as I know it will be to you, and that is why I asked him here to tell it.”
The door of the green room opened and a young man entered. “Dr. Talbot, Miss Kuhlman is almost ready for you. Will you follow me, please?”
Preacher got to his feet. He glanced at Joe and Marcus still seated on the couch. Joe looked up at him, grinned, and held a thumbs-up fist. “Go tell ’em, Preacher.”
Marcus turned from the set. “Emphasize the fleshly temptations a bit more with her. Don’t forget she pulls her audience from the same group that watches the morning soaps from Monday to Friday. I made up a special group of photos for her. Pick up your cues from them.”
Preacher nodded. He felt the young man’s hand on his arm and turned to follow him. He followed the man through a corridor and they came out behind a drape.
The young man put his hand on the drape. “When you hear your name you enter. Pause for a moment to let the congregation see you, then turn toward Miss Kuhlman, who will be seated on a small couch center stage. You sit on the end of the couch opposite her. You will be at right angles toward her for better camera positioning. You will find a pitcher of water and glasses on the small table in front of you. I’ll pull the curtain for you.”
“Thank you,” Preacher said.
Her voice came through the loudspeakers overhead. “My friends, give a warm welcome to… the Reverend C. Andrew Talbot.”
The curtain was pulled back suddenly and Preacher stepped forward into a blinding battery of lights.
***
Gushing. Thick syrupy sweetness and light. And still, underneath it all a steel-like sense of purpose came through as she repeated his answer to her every question, turning it to the point she wanted to make. He felt nothing but admiration for her. This seemingly frail woman was made of tempered steel. It was her pulpit. She was the star. And she never let you forget it.
Star quality, Marcus had called it. That was the one thing they all had in com
mon—an indefinable presence that made them rise above the crowd of ordinary ministers. It was different in each one but nevertheless it was there.
In the two months Preacher had been on the TV gospel trail he had appeared on all their programs: Pat Robertson expressed the kindly interest and warmth of every American’s ideal next-door neighbor; Jim Bakker, the round-faced boy next door; Jerry Falwell, the sincere, friendly neighborhood president of the local Chamber of Commerce; Robert Shuller, the cheerful, uplifting smile of the neighborhood doctor who always brought the brighter side to your attention; Paul Crouch, with his brightly colored sport jackets, was the man next door ever ready to jump into his van and set off on adventures in the great outdoors or far and wonderful places; Oral Roberts, the intense visionary of the neighborhood with wonderful ideas to remake the world; Jimmy Swaggart, the bleeding heart of the neighborhood, who cried for all the suffering people of the world; Rex Humbard, the stern taskmaster; and, last but not least, Billy Graham, the father all could turn to in times of trouble.
All different. All star quality. All with their own personal relationship with God and His only Son, Jesus Christ, the Savior of mankind.
Katherine Kuhlman had it too. She was the aunt who came to you in times of trouble. With home-baked cookies. Or chicken broth. Everything to make you feel better.
***
The message light on the telephone was blinking when they got back to their hotel after the services. “Want me to find out who called?” Joe asked.
“Please,” Preacher said. He walked into the bedroom and threw himself across the bed. He was tired. He was also bored. He had gone over the same story so many times, he himself was tired of hearing it. The only consolation was that this had been the last stop of the current tour. Tomorrow he would be back in Randle with his own people.
Joe appeared in the doorway. “It’s that lady who works for Randle, Jane Dawson, who called. She left a call-back number in Dallas. She says it’s urgent.”
“I’ll call her later,” Preacher said. “It can’t be that important. I haven’t seen her in months.”
“The message said urgent,” Joe said.
“Okay. Get her for me.”
Joe went back into the other room. A moment later he called into Preacher’s room. “She’s on the line.”
Preacher picked up the phone and leaned back against the pillow. “Hello, Jane. What’s so urgent?”
Her voice was strained. “I have to see you.”
“You know we can’t do that,” Preacher said. “I told you how he feels about it.”
“You can stop in Dallas on your way back. He doesn’t have to know about it.”
“No. I gave him my word.” He began searching for a cigarette. “What’s so important that you can’t tell me about it on the phone?”
“There’s always a chance that someone could be listening in.”
“Not on my end.”
“I’m not that sure. Sometimes I think my phone is bugged.”
He couldn’t find a cigarette and began to grow annoyed. “I don’t give a damn whether anybody’s listening in or not. You tell me what this is all about or forget it.”
She began to cry.
“Cut it out,” he said. “You’re acting like a baby.”
“I—I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”
“Shit!” he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. He thought quickly for a moment. “You get yourself together. I’ll try to get a plane out of here tonight.”
He slammed down the phone and got out of bed. Joe heard the noise and came to the doorway. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Now we’re fucked. Really fucked,” he said angrily. He turned to Joe. “Get on the phone and see if you can get me on a plane for Dallas tonight.”
Chapter Twelve
She was waiting at the gate as he came through the ramp. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes anxious as she looked up at him. “Preacher,” she said in a small voice.
He bent and kissed her cheek without speaking.
“Do you have any luggage?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “I sent it on with Joe.”
“My car is in the parking lot.”
He nodded and followed her silently onto the moving walkway that took them toward the main entrance hall. The airport was almost empty. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was one-forty in the morning.
She looked up at him. “You’re angry with me.”
“I’m more angry with myself,” he answered shortly. “I figured you for having smarts. Even a high-school girl isn’t stupid enough to do anything without protecting herself first.”
She fell silent and they didn’t exchange another word until they arrived at the apartment house in which she lived. She got out of the car and gave the keys to the doorman. Preacher followed her into the lobby. In the elevator she pressed the button that took them to the penthouse.
It wasn’t until she opened the door to the duplex penthouse apartment that he realized that she lived in what was probably one of the most expensive apartments in the city. The apartment covered two floors, each with its own terrace outside large floor-to-ceiling french doors. It was furnished in a very expensive contemporary fashion and he recognized some of the paintings hanging on the walls as modern masters.
“Can I get you something?” she asked as they entered the living room.
“I could use a drink,” he said, his eyes glancing around the apartment.
“What would you like?”
“A Scotch, if you have it,” he said.
“I’ve got it,” she answered, turning away.
He called her back. “Is that real or a copy?” he asked, pointing at a Picasso.
“It’s real.”
“I never realized you made that kind of money,” he said. “The only other Picassos I’ve ever seen were in museums.”
“I’ll get your drink,” she said.
He was outside on the balcony looking over the city when she came back with the drink. He took the drink from her hand and turned back to the city. “There’s a lot of lights out there.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s why I chose this apartment. It has a beautiful view.”
“I never saw an apartment like this except in the movies. Randle pay for it?” he asked.
She nodded silently.
“If you’re smart enough to make that old son of a bitch keep you like this, how come you got stupid enough to blow it?” he asked sarcastically.
“I thought I was protected,” she said. “My doctor took me off the pill for a while, so I was using the suppositories.”
He thought quickly. It was almost three months since they had been together last. “How far gone are you?”
“The doctor said I’m at the end of my third month.”
“What took you so long to find out?”
“I told you. I thought I was protected. Besides, I was never very regular and it was nothing for me to miss a period or even two occasionally. It wasn’t until this week when I began to wake up feeling nauseous in the morning that I thought something might be wrong.”
“Oh shit,” he said, taking a deep swallow of his drink. “Did you ask him about an abortion?”
“He wouldn’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t believe in it.”
“Catholic?”
“No. Baptist with deep convictions about the right to life.”
He swallowed the rest of his drink. “Thank God he isn’t the only doctor in the world.”
Her voice was shocked. “You’d be willing for me to have an abortion?”
He stared at her balefully. “You bet your ass I would. For the first time in my life I’ve got the opportunity to get my own church together. How would it look if it turned up that I got a little bastard running around? And how long do you think you could live like this if it comes out? Randle would tie a can to you so fast you wouldn’t know what happened.”
She was silent for a minute. “We could get married.”
He shook his head. “I’m not the marrying kind. Marriage was never part of my plans.” He held up his glass. “Where’s the bar? I could use another drink.”
Silently she led him through the french doors and into the living room and gestured. The bar with the bottle of Scotch on it was in a small alcove at the corner of the room. He poured himself another drink and came back to her. “Chances are you’re too well known around here to do anything about it. California would be our best bet.”
She sank into the couch and looked up at him. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” she said. “You say that you’re a minister of the Gospel. What do you preach with, your mouth or your heart?”
“I preach the Gospel and even the Baptists in their convention of ’68 said that abortion is an individual choice,” he said angrily. “You tell me where it says in the Bible that I got to marry every girl I knock up.”
Her voice grew cold. “There have been others?”
“How the hell do I know?” he asked. “But I’ve always been with girls and you’re the first one that ever came to me with the problem. And how do I know that it’s even mine? It’s been almost three months since we’ve been together. You could have been with someone else the very first day we were apart.”
The tears began to roll down her cheeks. “I wasn’t.”
He was silent for a moment. “Okay. So you weren’t. That still don’t make any difference.”
“Does it make any difference that I love you?” she asked.
“The Lord tells us to love one another,” he answered.
“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” she insisted.
He took a swallow of his drink and sank into the couch opposite her. “Lord, you’re making it difficult for me. What do you think’s going to happen when old man Randle finds out? He made me promise to keep away from you. He’s going to kick us both out on our ass and we blow everything—I blow the church and you blow living like this.”
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