California Girl

17

DAVID TOOK TWO DAYS off from work. Then another. He’d never felt so drained. He couldn’t face another sermon or funeral or wedding or baptism. Not one more witticism for the marquee. Not another inmate who didn’t do it. Not one human being except for his immediate family.

Barbara rewrote the sermon preempted by Janelle. She was an excellent writer, adept at both hermeneutics and homiletics. David invited her to deliver the message on Sunday but Barbara refused. He took a marquee adage from a magazine rather than compose one: Exercise Daily-Walk with the Lord. Deacon Shaffner put it up and took the old one down.

His doctor did an electrocardiograph. Normal. Took blood for lab work, put a hurry-up on it, and got results in a day. Normal. Did a thoracic X ray to be safe. Normal again.

The doctor said he was in perfect health, that God was taking care of David as well as David was taking care of God.

He took long walks on the beach in Newport with Barbara, Matthew, Rachel, and Wendy. Matthew was two now. Rachel almost one. Wendy was five. She was a Vietnamese girl David had arranged to be placed in an adoptive family that was part of his congregation. He had prayed long and hard for the well-being of the frail, frightened girl. One week later the entire family had been killed in a car accident caused by a speeding drunk driver. All of them except for Wendy, who at three years old was hurled cleanly from the open side window of the station wagon and caught in the blossom-heavy branches of a navel orange tree that grew beside the boulevard. Bruises, nicks, and a mild concussion. That was all.

David and Barbara brought her home from St. Joseph Hospital, never a doubt that she belonged with them. And they were back in exactly one month for Barbara to give birth to Matthew.

Now, two years later, all three children were blessings to them. Rachel was peaceful and observant like her father. Matthew was mobile and fearless like his mother. Wendy was often delighted and took a helpful role with the younger ones. She had a large and selfless smile.

On the morning of his third day away from work, David was changing Matthew’s diaper when Barbara put her head in the room.

“Whew! Special Agent Hambly? FBI?”

“Oh? On a Saturday.”

“Guess I’ll finish this.”

They sat in the study of David’s home, door closed, afternoon sun blunted by the shutters. Hambly was David’s age, early thirties, with a compact face and body. Blue eyes, short dark hair, a deep dimple in the middle of his chin. His suit and shoes were brown. He moved the ottoman aside and lay his briefcase flat on it.

“I attended the memorial service,” said Hambly.

“Almost all the way back, on the left.”

“You were close, you and Janelle?”

“Yes.”

“It seemed like you’d known her a long time.”

“Fourteen years.”

“She liked LSD, didn’t she?”

“I believe she tried it.”

“Tried it. Yeah. Liked Leary’s Orange Sunshine, didn’t she?”

“I’m not familiar with the different brands.”

“Brands,” said Hambly.

David sensed that Hambly was not interested in his own line of questioning.

“It’s unusual for the FBI to investigate a murder,” said David.

“We’re not. Did Janelle ever talk to you about political organizations?”

“Never. She had no interest in politics that I know of. Except she was against the war.”

“I’d call that politics.”

“As I just did, Mr. Hambly.”

David still had the unbalancing feeling that Hambly wasn’t asking questions he cared about. Until the next one, which Hambly delivered after moving to the edge of the sofa.

“What about the John Birch Society?”

“Janelle Vonn?”

Hambly said nothing. But he looked at David with a pugnacious blankness.

“Actually,” said David, “she did mention the John Birch Society a few times. She asked me about them. What I knew. If they were legal. If they were good.”

“Legal?”

“She wasn’t sure at first if they were a legitimate group,” said David, “or perhaps an outlawed one.”

“What do you mean by at first?”

“When she first mentioned them.”

“Which was?” asked Hambly.

“Four, five years ago.”

“Did she know any members?”

“My father and mother are Birchers. Not that she knew them very well.”

“Give me the names of four of her friends,” said Hambly.

David nodded but didn’t speak. He regarded the dimple and blue eyes of Special Agent Hambly. Saw that the dimple was too deep for a razor to safely negotiate. Little sprout of black whiskers dead center in the man’s chin.

“No,” said David.

“Why not?”

“I don’t like your attitude or your manners,” said David.

“Are you a friend of Roger Stoltz?”

“Yes.”

“Howard Langton?”

“Yes.”

“Good friends with them, Reverend Becker?”

“Not close.”

“Close enough to have dinner with Langton and Janelle the night she died?”

David’s heart fluttered. “That dinner date was canceled.”

Hambly squared the briefcase on the ottoman. The two latches burst upward with loud clicks and flashes of gold. Hambly slipped out a single 8¹/²-by-11 black-and-white photograph. Pinching it with his forefinger and thumb, he held it up for David to see.

David remembered walking up to Janelle’s door that evening. As in the picture.

Hambly held up another. David remembered sitting at the dinette in Janelle’s cheerful little cottage with her and Howard Langton. All laughing. As in the picture. Who could possibly have taken these?

“There are more.”

“Why did you take them?”

“In conjunction with routine surveillance. And they turned out to be, well…useful.”

“What exactly is this about?” asked David. “What exactly do you want?”

“First let me tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to have to show these pictures to anybody. I really mean that.”

“And only I can prevent it.”

“Of course you can. Just tell me some stories.”

“About who?”

“Start with your father and Roger Stoltz. Tell me about their political activities and plans. Their personal opinions and relationships. Their faults and foibles. We know they’re Birchers. We can handle the Birchers. And we know about the Klan. We can handle them, too. But we’re hearing about this new thing down south, the National Volunteer Police. And we’re hearing about it right here in Orange County. We’re seeing ‘Support Your Local Police’ bumper stickers given out at Max’s meetings. We wonder if there might be a kind of bridge. A JBS bridge leading back to the Klan. Nobody heard Birchers crying when King got shot. President Johnson, being a Texan, is very concerned about white hate.”

“Sweet Jesus in heaven.”

“But our concerns don’t stop with Mr. Stoltz and Mr. Becker. We’re interested in everyone you know, Reverend. Nick is a terrific detective. You two must talk. And Andy’s ingratiated himself with the Dessingers. I wonder at all he knows about this county. And look at your large and growing congregation. We’d love to know what certain of your believers are really doing and thinking. For instance the Robinsons, who are former members of the Socialist Workers Party. Or Dyson Krenek, who has a very personal relationship with a United States senator whose name I can’t reveal. And there is the Martinez family, with blood ties to César Chávez. And poor Gina Ritter, with her husband a Democratic Party leader plugged into Hollywood and her son plugged into a heroin needle. Even the inmates you counsel at the jail, they must have some interesting stories to tell.”

“You’re a pestilence.”

“Or Bob Washburn-Dr. Robert Washburn-who teaches history and espouses Marxism out at the University of California at Irvine. How many students has he signed into membership in the American Communist Party?”

“None, that I know of.”

“But wouldn’t it be good to really know for sure?”

David felt as if he’d been slugged in the stomach. He stood, took a deep breath, sat back down.

“And who really runs the RoMar Orange Sunshine plant?” asked the agent. “Is it Max Becker or Marie Stoltz?”

“How would I know? Who cares?”

“We care. We are exactly who cares. Odd, isn’t it? Orange Sunshine. Same name for LSD and for Stoltz’s asphalt cleaner?”

David looked at Hambly but could hardly form thoughts, let alone answers.

“Reverend,” said Hambly, “I’d be happy with information on just about anybody in your congregation. You have a lot of friends. I just want you to share once in a while. That’s all. We don’t have to meet. You never have to see me again. You just call me at a number I’ll give you before I leave, and you say it’s Judas. You just say, hello, Hambly, this is Judas. I thought of that code name just for you.”

“You are repugnant to me in every way possible,” said David.

“Back at you, Rev. I take it we have a deal. You want these?”

“Leave them on the sofa.”

“Tell me about your father and Stoltz,” said Hambly.

“Tell you what?”

“When they met. How they met. Are they faithful to their wives? What do they talk about at those long dinners? Are they really behind Nixon or isn’t he tough enough on Communism for them? What do they really think of him? And Pat? What do they think of her? Mainly, what in hell’s this National Volunteer Police? We don’t think it’s anything like a traditional volunteer service, where you get to dress up in a cute uniform and help out the local cops.”

“I can’t do this right here, right now.”

“I understand, David. I really do. Here. Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

He handed David an FBI card with a handwritten number on the back.

“Stoltz and Marie happy?”

“I really don’t know,” said David.

“You’ve been their family minister for almost three years now. I use the word ‘family’ loosely, since they don’t have children.”

“We don’t have those kinds of discussions.”

“Maybe you should.”

Hambly set the photographs on the sofa. Swung down the briefcase lid and snapped it shut.

“Well?” he asked. “Anything else?”

“No.”

They stood and Hambly offered his hand.

“Get out of my house,” said David.

“Have a far-out and groovy afternoon, Rev.”

WHEN HAMBLY had gone David called the FBI number on the card. A businesslike male voice answered, “Good afternoon, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” so he hung up.

He slid to his knees and rested his forehead on the beige carpet. Arms around his middle. Prayed as hard as he’d ever prayed that news of his dinner with Janelle Vonn and what had happened after would never come out. Not to mention pictures.

My God, my God, my God.

His stomach ached and his heart ached and his head ached. He remembered something from an old San Anselmo’s class called “The Art of Prayer,” where Dr. Rable showed them how during a prayer a rhetorical pause can be escalated to a potent dramatic caesura. You had to do it at the right time and have the courage to allow your listeners-or yourself-to go “from restless to receptive.” So he just knelt there, head on the carpet and body revolting with worry, praying with silence. Not a word. Not a thought.

Waiting for an answer.

Waiting for a sign.

Waiting for a miracle.

Waiting.

David had tried this prayer of silence before. But as soon as the silence became ripe, Satan always came barreling into it, demanding to know if God really intervened in the affairs of men in the first place. Where was the proof? And if He didn’t, then why spend a lifetime asking Him to? And Satan would remind David that God had not yet conclusively answered a single prayer of his. Not one that David could separate from mere coincidence. Not one that David could prove was an act of God. Satan said he knew plenty of ministers who were actually spoken to by God. It happened all the time. Maybe, said Lucifer, David was in the wrong calling.

So David held the silence as long as he could. Invited God into it. But it was the harpy voice of the devil that screeched into his mind in a whirlwind of dust and skidding boots like something from a cartoon. Less than a minute of peace was all David got.

And no answer.

A while later David dialed Nick but hung up again, realizing he couldn’t explain his situation without being revealed as a huge liar. And worse. The worship program he’d stupidly left at Janelle’s was now the least of David’s worries.

He thought of calling Andy and wondered what he’d say.

Ditto Mom and Dad.

Finally called Howard Langton and told him what had happened, to expect Hambly to come his way.

Langton, a high school civics teacher and football coach, was his usual bullish self, saying the bureau could kiss his ass before he’d rat on his friends. Though he had no desire to have it known that he’d dined without his wife at the home of a former student on the night of her murder.

BY FIVE that afternoon David finally had to get out of the house. He drove to Angel’s Lawn and stood next to Clay’s grave. He tried to do this once a week. Tried to pray for Clay’s soul but couldn’t concentrate.

So he drove the freeways. Got some motion. Steered and tried to pray and watched the exit signs blip past. Made him feel like he was progressing. Moving through time and space in a certain and purposeful way.

Then to Max and Monika’s like he often did. Just to see them and share a few words. He loved them. And pitied them, too, because they’d overcome a lot in their lives but couldn’t overcome Clay. David had prayed on that a million times but sometimes even God couldn’t heal a broken heart. Clay showed up in David’s dreams all the time. Just like he had always been-brash and funny and confident. Like he didn’t care he’d been killed outside a village few people in his own country could even name.

David parked in the driveway beside a black Lincoln four-door. Two men in dark suits by the Lincoln eyed him hard. David nodded and started up the walk and saw Dick Nixon coming from the house. Frown on his face, lips pursed. Gray suit and fresh haircut. Wing tips heavy on the concrete. Another Secret Service guy behind him.

Great, thought David. Like Hambly had conjured the meeting. Given him his first chance at betrayal.

Nixon smiled when he saw David, shook his hand. They made small talk there in the driveway for a minute. Nixon was interested in how the church was growing. He had that undistractable intensity that drew people, made them believe he was involved and concerned. Their man.

“Good luck in November, sir,” said David.

Nixon nodded solemnly. “I hope for the best. But I do wish I could see more eye-to-eye with the JBS, David. I know your father and Roger Stoltz are disappointed. I am, too.”

“They’ll support you.”

“It isn’t that.”

David saw something dark pass across the former vice president’s face. Dick had always seemed actively haunted.

“Good night, sir.”

“Regards to Barbara and the children.”

“And ours back to Pat.”

It was only six but Max appeared inebriated. Held a huge tumbler half full of gin and ice as evidence. Shot up from his blue recliner with a smile and his free hand extended. The old living room. So many memories. Cronkite and the body count for today: seventeen.

Monika smiled when she saw him come in. The same polite replica that had replaced her true smile the moment she’d heard about Clay. David leaned over, hugged her, and kissed her cheek. The bones in her back seemed large.

“Did you see Dick?” she asked.

“Said hi in the driveway.”

“He’s going to win but he won’t forget us,” she said. “He’s from Orange County. From good people. And he’ll be a huge improvement over Johnson.”

David pulled up a dining room chair, sat between them.

Max told David all about his workday at RoMar Industries today. How Marie Stoltz nominally ran the operation but needed Max to get things accomplished. Shipped eight thousand barrels last week, lost a flatcar halfway across Texas, nobody hurt but four hundred thousand gallons of Orange Sunshine wasted on tumbleweeds and armadillos, be the shiniest armadillos God ever saw.

“Drink, son?”

“No thanks, Dad.”

“Time for a refill.”

Max steered to the kitchen. Monika held David’s hand, looking from him to the TV and back again. But mostly at the TV.

“How have you been, Mom?”

She patted his hand. “Just so busy. You know.”

He really didn’t know. Her children were grown and she didn’t work. Max was gone forty hours a week at RoMar. She had no hobbies. And few interests except for the Birch Society meetings and publications.

Max lowered back into his chair, drink raised for balance.

“I’m working a few hours a week at the bookstore,” she said.

The American Opinion Bookstore, David knew. Official JBS propaganda outlet. Books on Communist takeovers and how the United Nations was a waste of time and money, how the Russians wanted America to fall. Until a couple of years ago the clerks would grouse about the tax when they rang up a sale. Because the California sales tax went to Governor Pat Brown, a Democrat. The clerks liked to say, If it’s brown, flush it. David actually believed a lot of what the JBS said. Just didn’t like the way they thought they were right and everybody else was stupid.

“Four hours, actually,” she said. “But you know, son. One thing leads to another. Not enough hours in the day. You?”

David told them about Barbara’s youth league and Matthew’s language skills, Rachel’s brave toddling, and Wendy’s supernal calm as an older sister. For a few minutes he was able to appreciate his wife and children from a distance, in the telling of their virtues. And to forget Hambly and his pictures and the colossal stupidity of what he had done.

He drove away slowly, lost in thought. Prayed to get through this. Realized that you could drive across the entire continent never seeing farther than the beams of your headlights. Wondered if there might be a sermon in that metaphor.

Faith as your headlight.

THAT NIGHT in bed David lay trembling in Barbara’s arms and told her what had happened with Special Agent Hambly. The breath caught in her throat when he said that Hambly had code-named him Judas. She used an oath that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

She made ferocious but tender love to him. She seemed to almost inhabit him at times like this. To feel what he was feeling.

After, she drew a warm bath and led him to it. She lit candles in the darkened bathroom. With her knees on a folded towel she leaned over the tub to work the shampoo into a lather, scrub the sponge up and down his back. And later to cup the handfuls of fresh water over his head.

“It may be time to settle on a partner,” she said.

“I want you to take over if anything happens.”

“No, David. We would lose the congregation. Properly prepared, they’ll follow another man. But they won’t stay with a woman.”

“I feel like giving up.”

“Of course you do,” she said. “But in the morning you won’t. You’re a fighter and a warrior and a man of God. You have power in your heart. I’ve seen you down and you always get back up. Always.”

He felt the water running down his head. Heard the splash of it around him. Smelled the soap and conditioner and melting candle wax.

“I’ve narrowed down the candidates to two,” said Barbara. “Either would be fine. Edmond has age and intelligence. Whitbrend has youth and ambition. They would both bring modest congregations. They’re both amenable to the base agreement and incentive scale and escalators. They’re both keenly aware that the way the congregation is growing, the sky is the limit, and that television will take us there. Literally. Look, David, here we are hardly moved into the new chapel and it’s time to think about a larger one. The television ministry that you are so afraid of? It must happen, David. It will take your congregation from a thousand to millions. Millions. You are a very powerful and charismatic minister, Reverend Becker. You have a responsibility to provide for your worshipers like you do for your family. As an employer would for his workers.”

“I know.”

She wiggled one of his earlobes. “And you should benefit from your hard work like anyone else. God in heaven certainly does.”

“I don’t presume to understand Him.”

“No. You’re right. I won’t, either.”

He sighed. Listened to the music of water hitting water.

“Call the younger one tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “Whitbrend. He had an interesting look in his eye.”