Ghosting. Kirby Gann
behind her. From this close vantage Greuel can discern the ex-junkie he knows Ponder to be and that no manner of good living can make up for; his eyes may sparkle blue in the spotlight but they are set deep in shadowed sockets and betray to Greuel’s experienced eye that indefatigable hunger that draws from the addict’s insides, that fanatical madness begging to be consoled. Ponder’s skull is a map set in relief beneath its lean skin, and he looks well older, up close, than his forty-two years.
Greuel vaguely recognizes the elderly woman’s escort though he can’t recall why—which he finds bothersome, as he’s the kind of man who prides himself on his ability to remember names and faces. It’s all the medications they’ve got him on, his brain’s turned to grated cheese. With careful indulgence the man rests a tan and manicured hand on the woman’s shoulder; in the next instant he is helping Brother Gil extricate himself from her grasp.
“Tell me who that man is,” Greuel tells Arley Noe.
“Well hell, that’s the preacher. That’s Gil Ponder.”
“I’m not talking about him, you blueskin hick bastard. The guy next to him.”
Noe follows Greuel’s nod to spot the man standing formal with his hand again on the woman’s shoulder. He’s tall, and completely bald in the hip urban fashion of the day, immaculately presented. Noe elbows Grady Creed beside him, who sits slumped low with his legs extended into the aisle, eyes half-shut and ankles crossed. The preacher moves into another aisle between sections, saluting some, handshakes or kisses to others, and Greuel is impressed by the stamina of the crowd’s gusto. He wonders if this preacher plans to greet each individual on the floor—in which case he’s out of here, he isn’t going to sit through that.
“Creed says he’s with some morning show, the funny one.”
“They bring out the celebrities, huh?”
“Like I told you,” Noe says.
“Like Creed told you,” snorts Greuel.
“We are here and it’s all happening,” he answers, the thing about him being that Arley Noe can’t be surprised or offended.
Greuel smiles. His scanning eyes alight on yet another recognized face, the young woman who had been in his home a week before: her bright hair, like a pat of apricot jam in sunlight, is impossible to miss. How girlish and pretty she looks now, with her hair down. Why would she ever sport a ponytail if she could look like that any time she wants to? A grievous shame, Greuel decides. She probably doesn’t realize how beautiful she is. His wife had been like that; her disavowal of her own beauty had made him sad. But why doll up? When you get down to it, is church the place for a woman to look her sexy best? Her name comes to him now: Beck. Something Beck, a friend of his son’s. He remembers her saying she was down with Hay-seuss, and he had been charmed. He smiles to see this wasn’t a put-on. Then he frowns. That’s the problem with kids—they believe in things.
Ponder quits the hands-on approach and waves to the seats in back as he returns to the stage, and Greuel has not heard this kind of bleacher stomping since a state-final basketball game. The musicians watch Ponder raise his arms again, Bible in one hand, fingers splayed in the other. With a nod to the band he turns back to the audience, and when his arms fall the music stops and the house lights come up. The applause continues in a great surge, then begins to teeter and fall, a stream trickling over many rocks, as Ponder pats the air with his hands, repeating that they should get this party started. He thanks them all for being there, for just being. The crowd doesn’t quiet until he announces, Let us pray, and begins the invocation.
“Dear God look at these beautiful people. Look at these folks in their finest come to honor Your name and Your Word on this beautiful Sunday morning with which You have blessed us. We ask You to watch over our congregation and to guide us in Your name and show us the way. Lead us to Your promised prosperity. Let me hear you say Amen.”
The audience complies as one. Greuel and Noe snigger as Grady Creed, surprising even himself, chimes in.
“What?” Creed shrugs them off, pouting, “Caint hurt can it?” He leans forward in his foldout chair as though wanting to hear the preacher better.
“The Lord guides us, friends. Even at those times we don’t think we can feel Him, He’s there looking over us all. I don’t know about you but I can feel His benevolent gaze right now, His all-seeing eyes on this house of worship. You know what He wants us to know? He wants us to know He’s there, guiding. He wants us to know that each one of us is precious to Him. I’ve been contemplating this for some time now, after meetings with so many of our members, good people who find themselves in a bind they didn’t ask for. A financial bind. Who here can’t relate to that business?”
Affirmative murmurs wave through the audience.
“People ask me about bankruptcy. That’s a spirit-killer right there, I don’t have to tell you. Bankruptcy. I listened to one gentleman the other day, a good man you can be sure, works two or three jobs, he could be sitting next to you just now. He was talking about his debts, the difficulties of making ends meet, balloon payments on too much house and the kids going to good schools—we all know if you want a child educated right you can’t chance that public school might send home some day some indoctrinated stranger who’s there to tell you everything you believe and been guided by is wrong. Am I right? And those private schools aren’t cheap, are they? Big government is happy to take our tax money and put it in every cause you don’t believe in, but you’re on your own if you want to give your child the best education money can buy, some place where you have a say in what he learns. I am right.”
Hurrahs scatter through the congregation, patches of applause flare and flutter about. Greuel’s attention is wandering already. On the altar up there, beside an untouched, empty chalice and what looks like a cross bound in leather, sets of car keys hang from a small stand, the logos of luxury manufacturers recognizable even from this distance: Acura, BMW, Audi, Mercedes-Benz. He understands none of it but likes the spirit of the place.
“It hurt my heart to see this good man,” Ponder continues. “We prayed together, went over his options—how do we do that? Come on, you know already. We opened our hearts together to the Lord. You know what happened then? God came into my heart. He spoke to me as He often does, and I’m not the only one. He said, ‘Hey there Brother Gil’ (that’s what He calls me, Brother Gil, He never says Mr. Ponder or anything formal like that), He says, ‘Why are you so concerned for this man and his situation? Sans souci, my child. I’ve got it taken care of.’ I said to him, ‘God I don’t doubt that, you know I don’t, but could you show me how to bring this man some peace so he can sleep at night?’ And then God points out that He addressed just this same issue a long time ago. He told me to check out Psalm sixty-six twelve.”
The preacher hoists his book aloft and sifts the pages. Around Greuel various attendees sift pages through their own bibles. When Ponder finds the desired verse he raises his free hand and signals to the audience with splayed fingers again.
“Thou hast caused men to ride over our heads; we went through fire and through water: but thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place. ‘How’s that strike you,’ God asked. I told Him He was the Man. He reminded me: God’s Will never leads you where God’s Grace will not protect you. And He reminded me again, ‘Check Deuteronomy eight-eighteen.’ But remember the Lord your God, for it is He who gives you the ability to produce wealth.”
Brother Ponder snaps his book shut and drops it on the podium with a resounding thud, satisfied to have argued an airtight case. His hands settle on each hip, elbows akimbo, and he bends toward his congregation. Stretched in this way, a spiking dark blue tattoo stripe creeps over his collar from beneath a swath of makeup. Greuel snorts.
“Doesn’t that make you feel a little bit better? Think about it: God made each of us—that’s a given. He doesn’t create us just to watch us flail and fail. That’s what mice and all His other little creatures are for. He made us in His image. What God wants for those in His image is a successful—no, not just