by Davis Bunn
The young woman who appeared in Jason’s cubicle evidently knew it did not hold an extra chair—she’d dragged with her a blue ball from the playpen. She straddled the ball, gripping the blue rubber tether, and bounced softly as she said, “What’s happening, Jason?”
Abigail belonged to his Young Life group at church. She worked in accounting, was perhaps the smartest person Jason had ever met. She could make her numbers do just about anything except stand up and bark. And Jason figured it was only a matter of time before she mastered that as well.
She was also very attractive. If one managed to look beyond the thick spectacles with their huge pale frames, the muslin clothing with vests layered over everything, the scuffed rubber clogs, and the absence of any makeup whatsoever. Jason had been working up the courage to ask her out. For five months and counting.
Jason glanced at her, then away. “I’m busy.”
“No you’re not.”
“I should be.” He glanced at his frozen screens and grimaced at the ghouls. “Maybe I should just quit.”
“You said you’d stick it out.” She bounced in time to her words. “You were right.”
“I’m not doing anything here. Literally.”
“That’s about to change.” She bounced back far enough to glance behind her, scouting the corridor. “You won’t believe what I just found.”
“Is it good?”
“Maybe.” Her bouncing drew her closer, her voice lowered. “Guess which ministry received a half million bucks.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Five hundred thou,” she repeated. Her grey eyes sparkled with a light remarkably soft, and he thought her voice was musical when she was happy. Like now. “From our own corporate foundation.”
“Wait. You’re telling me—”
“Yup.” Her dark hair floated around her face as she moved up and down. “The newest acquisition of the Mundrose Group celebrates by making a donation to a ministry.”
“Which one?”
“Reverend Albright.”
Jason could feel his synapses fire for the first time that day. “He’s not a real pastor anymore.”
“I know that. You know that. But that’s not what his website claims.”
“He teaches somewhere.”
“Pennsylvania.”
“And he writes books.”
“About God being only a cultural icon that belongs to a bygone age.” She was clearly enjoying this.
Jason said, “The donation has got to be tied to, you know, what’s happening out there with Barrett.”
“Why do you think I’m sitting here?”
“I’ve got to call Pastor Craig.”
“You know how to reach him?”
“He gave me a number to call. Day or night. If, you know, I had something.”
“Which you do.”
“Thanks to you,” Jason agreed.
“You’re welcome.” She seemed reluctant to rise off the ball. She watched him turn on his cellphone and said, “Guess that’s my cue.”
Jason was punching the number into his phone when he decided there would never be a better time. “Let’s do something, Abigail. You know, go out.”
Abigail turned very solemn. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Yes,” he said, swallowing hard. “I do.”
Her smile was glorious to behold. “So do I.”
“The Bible contains several different words that we translate as hope,” Aaron said. He leaned forward, placing his arms on the space between John and Jenny in the next seat. “The primary words are tikvah, which is a noun, and mekaveh, the verb. The first time this word appears, though, it is not used for hope directly. That passage is in the first chapter of Genesis, the ninth and tenth verses, where God gathers the waters and creates what will become the Garden of Eden.”
Richard slipped the van into a tight parking space, moving the vehicle back and forth twice before turning off the engine. He gripped the wheel and turned about, focused with the others on Aaron.
The young man with his scraggly beard and expressive hands seemed made for jokes. Even when, like now, he was utterly serious. “Why would the author of Genesis, inspired as he was by God, use that particular word in this particular place? Because we are to understand that it is here, in the gathering together, we know hope. God created man from the dust, and sheltered him in this divine haven. As we gather together in divine intent, we reflect the union of all things that existed within the garden. Before sin. Before the fall from grace.
“Here, then, is the first meaning of hope. The highest meaning. We gather together and seek to understand God’s eternal promise. And what is God’s fundamental purpose for man? To return the earth to God. When we act in faith and seek to do his will, we become a component, a significant part of the kingdom’s return. Here, in this imperfect search, strengthened by many hearts and minds working and praying together, we come closest to God. Through our shared hope in the unseen, through our unified desire to be his holy instruments, we know hope in its purest form.”
They sat in silence for a time. John’s only comprehensible thought was a yearning to do better. To do more.
Then his phone rang. He fished the device from his pocket and told them, “It’s Craig.”
Jenny’s mother asked, “Who?”
“The pastor in Texas,” Jenny explained. “The one who didn’t want us to do this.”
Richard reached back. “Let me take it.” He tabbed the connection and said, “Yes, Reverend. No sir, it’s always good to hear from you.”
Richard listened for a time, and then revealed a smile that transformed his features. “Really? They’re certain about this? Excuse me for asking, but we can’t get this wrong. No, I understand. Well, this is wonderful. Truly. A gift. Yes, sir, I’ll let you know as soon as John is done.”
Richard cut the connection, and shared around a smile so great his shining eyes almost vanished. “You won’t believe what just happened. Well, actually, you probably will.”
35
“… show them your love …”
MANHATTAN
Trent Cooper sat in the dressing room beside Radley Albright. The former pastor glowed with self-importance and stage charm. Trent had skimmed the man’s most famous book, which consigned religion to a cultural garbage heap. He had studied the professor’s website, which showed clips of him addressing thousands of students, talking about how he had finally seen the real light, left the ministry in order to serve the greater good and serve the people of this generation, serve the truth. Perhaps it was because the man had said the same words hundreds of times, but to Trent’s ears the message carried a calculated tone. As though it had been distilled from the man’s observations of society, rather than drawn from some deep personal change. So what the man actually believed, Trent had no idea. Nor did it matter. The longer he had studied the man and his message, the more convinced he had become. Dr. Albright was the perfect implement, a hammer to pound John Jacobs into the earth where he belonged.
The professor’s every word carried a pompous weight. “And who are you exactly?”
“My name is Trent Cooper.” He spoke around the woman applying makeup. “I’ve been asked to represent the Mundrose Corporation in the broadcast.”
“You’re the group’s spokesperson.”
“Sort of.” That had been Barry’s idea, have him appear on air. Trent had wanted to object. He was too aware of his physical defects, more past than present, but still—he knew when he grew weary or stressed he still had a slight lisp to his speech. And no amount of makeup could fully hide the shadow-line drawn from upper lip to left nostril. But Edlyn had agreed, in a manner that offered no room for disagreement.
“And the young lady who accompanied you?”
“Gayle is my associate.”
“Your associate.”
“That is correct.” Gayle’s presence had made it unnecessary for Trent to explain his exact position to anyone. Bei
ng staffed by such an intelligent and beautiful woman who anticipated his every need meant he had to be someone important. By the time Trent had followed Radley Albright into the dressing room, everyone knew with certainty that he was far more than just another corporate mouthpiece.
Albright asked, “So you’ll be on the panel with me?”
“No. They are bringing me on after you’re done.”
“Ah. That is perhaps for the best.” Albright leaned in closer to the mirror encircled by lights. “I have a great deal I plan to discuss about this subject. No need to share my limited time on air.”
The professor stopped because Trent had slipped from his chair and drawn within inches of the man’s face. “I want you to listen to me very carefully.”
Albright drew back as far as he could. “I say, there’s no need to invade my space.”
In reply, Trent grabbed the paper napkin from the professor’s collar. He lifted his hand into the tight space between them and crumpled it in his fist. “I am the man who signed your check. I am the man who can make sure you never receive a nickel more from Mundrose. Or a second of airtime from any of their channels. Ever. Tell me we’re clear.”
The professor’s swallow was audible. “Of—of course.”
“You have been given three points we want you to make on air. For this we’ve paid you half a million dollars. I want you to pound these home with all the strength in your body and mind. These points and nothing else. Clear?”
“I—Yes.”
“Your job is not to discuss anything. You’re being paid to go out there and bury this guy.”
“Understood.”
“Good.” Trent rose to full height, snatched his own napkin from under his chin, and turned to the door. “Nice to meet you.”
When Trent emerged from the dressing room, Gayle was waiting for him in the hall leading to the studio. Gayle must have seen his ire for she asked with a frown, “Is everything all right?”
“Fine.” Trent did not mind the confrontation. The residual anger spiced the moment. “Everything’s great.”
“Edlyn phoned. She said to tell you good luck.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“She and Barry want to have a word after the reception.” They were going straight from the studio to the music group’s launch party in a ballroom overlooking Times Square. It was by invitation only, but crowds of celebrity watchers had been growing all afternoon.
“Do you know what it’s about?”
“They have a new project they want you to manage.”
Trent tasted the electric punch that came with the realization that it was really happening. He was entering the inner sanctum. The power and the money and even the beautiful woman. All his. “Fantastic.”
The control room was beyond a glass wall to his left. The monitors and complex controls and technicians sat or stood at the room’s far side. Between them and the production staff were three rows of padded chairs. Gayle asked, “Do you want to go sit down?”
“In a second.”
The elevator doors opened and what appeared to be the entire Barrett team spilled out. Trent recognized many of the faces from their video appeals and his own confidential investigations. Which only made the moment finer.
John Jacobs was the last to emerge. Trent stood where he was, glad for the opportunity to study this man up close. The enemy. In person.
Gayle took a step back. Which was good as well. Trent wanted to do this alone. Have the man know him, remember the meeting. One on one. He had never felt more in control. Of himself or his destiny or the moment. It was a heady mix, the power and the friction and the knowledge that this man would soon be crushed. In front of millions of viewers.
“Mr. Jacobs, I’m Trent Cooper.” He reached out a hand, standing firmly in place so the man would have to move to him.
John Jacobs was in his late fifties, and bore the features of an aging boxer, strong and battered and wounded and healed. In a manner of speaking. Even his voice carried the mix of defeat and determination. “I’m sorry, should I know you?”
“I am here representing the Mundrose Group.”
Jacobs accepted the outstretched hand with a hard grip, his skin rough and yet his grasp surprisingly gentle. Then he said something Trent would never have expected. Not in a million years. “We’ll be praying for you.”
Trent had the sudden urge to laugh out loud. But he made do with a tight smile, a practiced New York gesture. Over his opponent’s head, Trent imagined a giant banner shouting to the world his slogan. Hope Is Dead. Trent stepped to one side. “I believe they’re expecting you.”
He watched one of the studio gophers hurry over to introduce herself and rush Jacobs down to the dressing room. Then he turned to Gayle and said, “Let’s get started.”
Gayle tapped on the glass door leading to the control room. A middle-aged woman wearing a headset walked over and unlocked the portal. She introduced herself as the executive producer. When the door clicked shut, she remained where she was, staring from the darkened room out to where the people with Jacobs were gathered. The woman asked doubtfully, “Should I invite them inside?”
Trent turned his back on them. “Absolutely not.”
36
“… their day is coming …”
MANHATTAN
John Jacobs had never been anywhere near the power core of live television. In any other circumstances, he would have been in awe of the bustle and the glitz, terrified by the prospect of sitting at the conference table beneath the batteries of klieg lights and cameras. As it was, he felt very little. He was led into the dressing room, a fleet of high-octane young people rushing about. He stepped into a small closet and locked the door. He took his time dressing in Bobby Barrett’s suit, a slate-grey with chalk stripes. Some lady kept calling through the closed door that there was ten minutes to airtime, eight, six. As though her real job here was to rattle the nerves of anyone daring to enter the national news domain.
When he emerged, a chunky woman with a helmet of brassy hair waited to work on his face. The woman who had been in previously returned and barked that John went on in four. Aaron stepped through the door and asked, “Would you like some company?”
John waved him inside. “That was amazing, what you said in the car.”
Aaron had a deferential smile, and a rabbi’s way of deflecting praise. A small shrug, a turn of bony hands. “One does what one can.”
The makeup lady inspected John and decided, “You’ll do.”
“Glad you think so,” John said, and pulled the paper bib from his neck. “Thank you.”
The woman must have found something she liked, because she smiled and said, “Go get ’em, Tiger.”
“I intend to,” John replied with an answering smile.
He and Aaron walked the hall and joined the others in the studio’s antechamber. Directly in front of them was a glass wall overlooking the control room. Three curved rows of theater-style seats rose behind three aisles of computers, sound equipment, and rushing people. The front wall had a long window overlooking the stage and the cameras, while above the glass stretched massive flat-screen monitors. More monitors dotted the rows of controls. John found it encouraging, how the sight of the equipment and the tense voices and the tight clicking of the digital timer did not rattle him. Though his heart was racing, and he could feel the tension in his gut, he was comfortable just the same. This coming interview was just another assignment he had accepted that Sunday morning, seated in church, trying to listen to God.
And whatever came next, John was certain of one thing. He would not be facing this alone.
The bossy young woman rushed over. “You need to move onstage.”
“Just a minute.”
She had already started to rush away. “What? No! You have—”
“Back off,” John said, using the tone he applied when a bullying trucker got in his space. The woman backed. “Thank you.”
John turned to the others an
d said, “Heather, could you…?”
His wife reached out her hands. “Let’s join together.”
When they were done, the woman said in the clipped manner of one born to argue, “You are on air in one minute.”
“Aaron, walk with me.” John and the young doctor passed through the control room and pushed through the swinging doors leading to the soundstage. “Any last words?”
“The rabbis had a saying for such times,” Aaron replied. “When they gathered with other learned teachers, there would always be disagreements. Heated arguments. Bitter rivalries.”
The woman led him around the table and seated him in one of the three seats. The world-famous newscaster was seated at the table’s curved end. Between them sat a pastor along with a teacher John recognized from television. The two men started to greet him. John merely nodded and said to Aaron, “Go on.”
Aaron leaned in tight by John’s ear as the woman fitted him with a lapel mike. “The most powerful arguments are best delivered in the softest voice.”
“Let the words speak for themselves.” John nodded.
The woman said to Aaron, “Sir, you must leave the soundstage now.”
The studio’s frigid air held an acrid quality, as though the lights gave off an electric odor. John felt perspiration trickle down his back. His heart punched so hard his fingers flicked slightly in time to each rapid beat. He could sense a cloud of dread lurking out in the distance. And yet at the very core of his being, down where it really mattered, he was calm.
He listened as Katherine Bonner introduced her two guests for the show’s opening segment. The famous newscaster spoke with the rapid ease of a true professional. She stated her opening position in terse bites. “The world has witnessed a new phenomenon, one that has grown from what can only be described as humble roots into a cause reaching around the globe. And done so in a matter of days. At its head is John Jacobs, a transport executive from Cincinnati. Many of you have seen his video casts, which have now registered over eleven million hits on YouTube. Mr. Jacobs is advocating a remarkable boycott of all products and companies that sponsor the Mundrose Group. Later in the program we will be hearing from a Mundrose executive. But first, we would like to delve more deeply into what precisely Mr. Jacobs is promoting.”