“My good people,” the Reverend says. “My good northern neighbors. What a genuine thrill it is to be here with you tonight in the splendid museum here. What a wonderful honor to be asked to break bread with my new friends.”
“Amen,” someone down front barks out.
“Amen is right. And bless his holy name. I am the Reverend Garland Boetell. And I know you are all familiar with my trusted assistant Fernando, saved as a child from the horrors of São Paulo on our very first Brazilian mission. Praise the Almighty.”
Boetell pulls the young man in the robe forward, this walking prop of redemption, and pats his shoulder as more whistles and cheering erupt. It’s like a high-fever dream — the staid Quinsigamond art museum transformed before everyone’s eyes into a tent revival. Sylvia looks around at the tapestries and the Rodin sculpture, a little fearful they’re suddenly going to transform themselves into something else. Hay bales. Burning crosses.
“Now I want to start off by thanking the esteemed legal firm of Walpole & Lewis for throwing this beautiful reception and helping us inaugurate the campaign they are going to remember. Praise Jesus, they will not forget this night, my friends. Years from now, when our coming battles are righteous memories, when you sit with your children and try to tell them how the ways of justice and virtue finally triumphed in our land, you will begin with this very night. You will recall these moments in this great hall, as the start of the new crusade.”
The gallery explodes with Amens and Sylvia suddenly starts to feel hot and squeamish. She looks around, trying to see if anyone else knows what the hell this man is talking about.
“It is no secret, ladies and gentlemen, that there is blight on this country. That our very nation, selected by the Lord above himself, has fallen under the wheels of a most heinous corruption. We have lost the way. We have lost our vision. We have sacrificed our divine birthright, people, handed it over like change at the tollbooth. When Mr. Todd speaks to you of pessimism, I know from whence he comes. I know how sick and lost a soul can feel when it looks out upon this sprawling land, this once pure paradise, this once chosen Judeo-Christian Eden, and sees how terribly far we have fallen. I, too, lived through that very dark, very long night of the soul’s despair. I, too, my people, have felt the fires of the evil victor’s breath on my weakened shoulders.”
A big, sudden yell now, “I have seen doom on America’s horizon and I have shuddered in the abandonment of the e-tern-al savior.”
The crowd is silent, transfixed. Boetell’s got it. He makes Raymond Todd look like an amateur. The Reverend cannot be ignored.
The voice backing down now. “Some say, my friends, I will have to pay for my lapse in faith. Like Moses himself, my people, I will have to own up to my failing on that horrible night. I can’t escape my actions any more than any of you can. But I woke from my nightmare with a vision. A vision the good Lord has asked me to pass on to you. There is a time for every purpose, my friends. There is a time to eat and a time to refrain from eating. There is a time for sorrow and a time for joy. And make no mistake about this, ladies and gentlemen, at your very peril, make no mistake,” the voice building again, “there is a time for peace. And there is absolutely a time for war. And this hour, this very moment is the moment we declare the war. We delcare war on the forces of darkness that have taken our land.”
His last words are half-drowned by the crowd as if someone was working a neon applause sign. Sylvia touches Perry’s arm. He turns to her and shakes his head, leans his mouth to her ear and says, “Is this bizarre or what?”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she says, but he motions toward Ratzinger and gives a guilty shrug.
Boetell calms the faithful, takes in some air and begins again. “Now I don’t need to stand here tonight and tell you who the enemy is. You people know who the enemy is. You have eyes. You can see its presence in every city in this country. But there is surely strength in numbers, friends. And one look into the bosom of this crowd tonight and my heart just surges. Because I know with support like this, we will triumph. You are a prayed-up people. You know the path. You are willing to make the sacrifices. You simply need direction.”
A pause and then a big smile.
“And friends, that is where I come in.”
The shills go crazy. Sylvia closes her eyes and runs a hand over her forehead. She tries to remember if she’s got any Tylenol left in her purse.
“Now back where I come from, Families United for Decency has been growing by leaps and bounds for over a year now. We’ve had our share of skirmishes already. And you people can learn by our mistakes. Our funding has been growing steadily and of late we’ve managed to bring on board what you might call some heavy hitters from the corporate sector. We’ve now got close to a dozen Crusade Buses out on the road at all times. One dozen, my friends. We are out on the road. Now our coordinating committee has determined that we need a high-exposure skirmish. We need to get our story out on those airwaves. We need to dispense the truth to the good people of this nation, to tell the story in big, colorful pictures. And friends,”
Another perfectly timed pause, another broad smile.
“That is where you come in. We have done just a slew of field studies. We have gone from Atlantic to Pacific. From the Canadian border down to the Gulf of Mexico. But it wasn’t until I received those heartbreaking letters from your own Mr. Raymond Todd that I knew, that I positively believed, that we had our theatre, that we had our perfect battleground, that we had been given the site where the real war begins. And my friends, that site is the sad and fallen city of,” a pause, “Quinsigamond itself.”
It’s the big finale. The gallery fills up with all kinds of excited noise and it can’t be coming from Todd’s shills. The real guests, the people Walpole & Lewis invited, they must be caught up in it. And Sylvia has no idea what the Reverend is talking about.
“And so, let the war begin,” he bellows and Ray Todd jumps up to the lectern and the two men start to embrace as a rain of red, white and blue balloons is released from some netting up near the ceiling and the speakers start to play some kind of generic march music.
Sylvia starts to get small, stabbing pains in her abdomen, as if the music had triggered them. She grabs Perry’s arm at the elbow and pulls him back to her and says, “Please, let’s leave. Now.”
He gives her a strange look, comes to her ear and says, “Are you okay? You look really pale.”
“I’m not feeling well,” she says.
He gives a concerned-looking nod and says, “Okay, let’s get you home.”
He claps a hand on Ratzinger’s back and tries to tell him they’re leaving but the room is so loud he has to shout to make himself understood. Ratzinger steps over to Sylvia and says, “Sorry you’re feeling ill,” and she nods and closes her eyes, thinking she’s about to faint. Her knees buckle, but Perry moves fast and catches her and she leans against him as they move for an exit.
“You going to be sick?” he asks, a little panicky as they move out into a hallway.
“Just get me home,” she says, suddenly short of breath.
He steers them toward the garage exit.
“It’s probably the champagne,” he says. “You didn’t eat any dinner, did you?”