Eli (8 page)

had missed when prepping him for the operation.

It was that hair that now had her attention.

“I know I promised, but I forgot.”

“A promise is a promise. ‘You’re only as good as your
word,’ isn’t that what you always say?”

“Jules . . .”

“Isn’t it?”

“Julia, dear.”
It was her mother’s voice.
“Daddy’s got a
very important visitor.”

“But he promised. And you’re only as good as your word.

Right? Right!”

“She’s right,”
he sighed.

The memory continued flickering through her mind. He was much younger, in his twenties. He sat on the sofa, and she stood behind him. She held his thick, curly hair in her fingers and carefully snapped in another bright red barrette.

There were at least a dozen scattered through his hair. Some red, others green or purple—plus a handful of plastic daisies, along with two pink rollers from Mom’s collection.

“How much longer?”
Dad asked, squirming to glance at his watch.

“Hold still,”
Julia ordered.
“Just a few more to go.”

“Jules . . .”

“Okay, okay, at least let me finish this one.”
He held still as she clipped in the final barrette.
“There. Perfect!”

He rose and turned to her—tufts of hair sticking out in all directions, held in place by the bright hair clips. He was a masterpiece of the absurd, and she broke out laughing. It got hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 52

52 no better when he began making monster faces at her and started to chase her around the room . . . until the doorbell rang.

Suddenly the monster face froze. It glanced to its watch.

“He’s early!”

Instantly his hands shot up to his hair, yanking at the barrettes, trying to undo the clips. Some he managed to remove, most he did not.

The doorbell rang again.

“Want me to get it?”
Mom called from the other room.

“No, I, uh. . . I’ve got it.”
He gave Julia a look. She tried to cover her laughter but it did no good.

The bell rang a third time. With resignation and a heavy sigh, Dad headed for the door. Julia turned and started for cover, but he grabbed her hand.
“Oh, no, you’re in on this,
too.”

“Daddy,”
she squealed, protesting in delight.
“Let me go,
let me go!”

But he did not let go. He reached for the handle and opened it. Before them stood a tall, distinguished gentleman.

A gentleman Julia had seen a hundred times on television.

Yet she had never seen him with such a surprised look as he had that morning when seeing her father.

He cleared his throat and in a deep resonating voice asked,
“Do I have the right time?”

Dad grinned sheepishly.
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid you do.”

Then glancing down at Julia, he said,
“I’d like you to meet my
new hairdresser. Julia Davis, this is Walter Cronkite. Mr.

Cronkite, my daughter, Julia Davis.”

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C H A P T E R

T H R E E

“STAND BY TO ROLL TAPE,” THE DIRECTOR ORDERED.

The technical director, a thin, nervous fellow with glasses, punched an illuminated button on the console before him and repeated the order into his headset. “Intro tape, stand by.”

Conrad and Suzanne stood behind the two men at the board. A third, the effects operator, a pudgy individual with an embarrassing comb-over, sat to their right, while two college-aged production assistants, male and female, hovered near the back doing their best to appear cool and nonchalant.

The room was dim, lit by a single row of track lights running along a low, black ceiling. The only other illumination came from the TV monitors forming a wall in front of them. Most were black and white. Two were somewhat larger and in color—the program monitor, which displayed what would be on the show, and the preview monitor, displaying what the director planned to cut to next.

Up on the program monitor, Charlene Marshal, host of her own TV talk show, looked directly into the camera and read the prompter mounted in front of it. She was an attractive red-head, early thirties, with just enough compassion and charm to woo her guests into revealing intimate secrets, but enough 53

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54 grit and determination to steadily rise in the ratings. At the moment, her TV-Q was a solid 65 percent. She wasn’t at the top of the heap yet, but as the network continued to promote and send stories down to her, it wouldn’t be long.

“—a young man who has been creating quite a stir these past several months,” she said to the camera, “and who we are honored to have as our next guest. But before we bring him out, let’s take just a moment to show him in action.”

The director dropped his index finger and the technical director gave the command. “Roll tape.”

In the room behind them, the VTR operator hit play, and the footage that Ned had taped at the softball field began to roll. Eli had been right—network didn’t consider him worthy of hard news, but he was definite fodder for afternoon talk shows. Conrad wasn’t crazy about passing the segment down to this level, but after his debacle with the parallel universe story, he thought it best to lay low and be a team player.

The parallel universe story . . . as far as he could tell, that had been about the only major difference between this new world he was living in and his old one. Apparently, in this new world, he had decided
not
to pursue the story any further, he had
not
gone up to Camarillo, and he had
not
been involved in a serious car accident. In fact, upon his return from the Oregon softball game just ten days ago, he’d found the Jaguar, complete with sun-rotten wiper blades, unscathed and sitting in the same LAX parking lot that he always parked in when he flew out of town on his trips. He even had the parking stub in his wallet.

The same was true with every other area of his life. Everything was exactly as it had been—the same messy divorce with Roseanne, the same dirty dishes in the sink, the same shark-infested waters at work. It was remarkable. Uncanny.

And in some ways, almost comforting. Because gradually, as Conrad remained in this new world, as the minutes turned to hours and now to days, it grew more and more difficult to believe there actually had been another one, one of automo-hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 55

55

bile accidents and hospitalization. Granted, the idea still haunted him, forcing him to question if he was living out some elaborate fantasy or self-generated hallucination. In fact during those first few days he had even tried to jerk or startle himself back into his old world. But he’d met no success.

Then there were those calls to the California State Patrol as well as to the hospitals surrounding the Camarillo area—

Saint John’s, Conejo Valley Medical Center, and others. But the information was always the same. There had been no accident involving a Conrad Davis, and no patient by that name had been admitted. So, gradually, as the days unfolded, he found himself wondering more and more which reality was the real world and which one was the fantasy.

Apparently, whatever reality he’d experienced before, if it was a reality, no longer existed. At least not in this world.

Because in this world, except for the auto accident and hospitalization, everything was exactly as it had been.

Well, almost exactly . . .

There were two other differences. First, Suzanne’s change of faith. She’d always been a devout Christian. But now, she’d suddenly jumped ship and embraced a new Messiah. Not only that, but she kept denying that she’d ever heard the name of Jesus Christ. It was more than a little surprising. But not as surprising as the reason . . .

Conrad had had his suspicions ever since the baptism scene in Eastern Washington—actually ever since he’d seen (or imagined he’d seen) the baby in the laundry room of that earlier, 1970 Santa Monica. He’d barely returned to his home in Pasadena and unpacked before he headed to a bookshelf and dug out an old Bible—an old Bible that, to his surprise, appeared to have never included the New Testament. A Bible that simply ended with the book of Malachi—no Matthew, Mark, Luke or whatever, no mention of Jesus Christ and his disciples, and no epistles. And it wasn’t just his Bible. Every Bible he ran across, from hotel rooms to bookstores, had the same omissions. It was as if the gospel had never occurred.

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Charlene’s voice came up over the speaker. It was the audio piece he’d written and that she’d recorded earlier that morning. Over the taped footage from the softball field she spoke of Eli Shepherd, of his rising popularity and fame, and of his supposed gift of healing.

“Supposed?” Suzanne nudged Conrad.

He smiled. “Got to maintain some objectivity.”

She cut him a glance.

“Just keep watching,” he said.

Suzanne had come down from San Jose yesterday afternoon with Eli and his band of rag-tag followers. They weren’t organized—just an assortment of campers, RVs, and cars, about a dozen and a half, that had slowly been making their way down the coast. When Conrad heard of their arrival he swung by and tried to convince Suzanne to stay at the house.

That way she wouldn’t have to pay for a motel or sleep in some RV. She could stay in Julia’s old room.

Of course she declined. And he certainly understood, what with Roseanne gone and just the two of them alone. But he also understood something else. Felt it, really. That connection. Yes, he needed her presence up at the softball game, back when he was getting his bearings. But, even after he had returned home, even after he’d grown used to the situation and had settled back into his routine, he found himself thinking about her. Often, several times a day.

He’d heard that could be the case with first loves. And they were each other’s first loves—high-school sweethearts.

Of course he’d thought about her from time to time throughout the years. But this was different. More frequent. More . . .

distracting. And now that he was single again and since she had never remarried, maybe they could—

Stop it
, he scolded himself.
What are you doing? She’s too
good for you, you know that. And so does she
. It was a painful truth, but one he’d forced himself to accept. As difficult as it was, he knew there were simply some things that could not be changed.

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Still, it felt good to have her standing beside him, almost like old times, back when he’d produced his very first stories.

He remembered how they had sat together on that secondhand sofa, the one with the awful striped pattern, waiting breathlessly for his first segment to appear on TV. Those were good times. Back when their life was new and exciting and full of possibility. Back before he’d ruined it.

Up on the monitor, the taped Eli was completing his story about the seeds and the soil. Conrad knew Suzanne would be happy with the way he’d edited it. He’d put in plenty of audience reaction shots of folks listening and contemplating. It was an old TV trick that would assure viewers that Eli was to be taken seriously. Not that Eli needed tricks. To be honest, he didn’t need much fixing at all. The only substantial part Conrad had to cut was that unfortunate comment he’d made about being the only way to God. There was no reason to needlessly antagonize the audience.

Now the healing segment began. Conrad had made only two or three cuts to speed up the process. As they watched, he could practically hear Suzanne beam. And he was pleased when she gave his arm a squeeze of excitement. The segment came to an end on a freeze-frame where the weeping Brian Tuffts threw his arms around Eli in gratitude.

The studio audience applauded as Charlene came back on the program monitor. “And now, if you’ll join me in welcoming . . . Mr. Eli Shepherd.” The audience clapped louder as Eli appeared and joined Charlene on the platform. He looked anything but religious, wearing jeans, a forest-green T-shirt, and a tweed sports coat.

The two greeted one another and, as the applause faded, they took their seats up on the carpeted platform. It was a homey set, with a floral sofa, love seat, matching coffee and end tables, a bookshelf on the back wall with plenty of pictures, and, of course, the obligatory gas fireplace.

Once they were seated, Charlene began. “Eli, thanks for joining us.”

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“My pleasure.” And the smile on his face made it clear that it really was his pleasure. They began talking about his birth in Santa Monica (a fact not lost on Conrad), his unevent-ful childhood in the Pacific Northwest, the early death of his father, an education that took him only as far as high school, and the past dozen years that he’d been working as a general contractor building homes in the Seattle area.

Although Conrad did his best to maintain a reporter’s objectivity, he was pleased to see how well the cameras captured Eli’s warmth and openness. Charlene must have sensed it too for she was turning up her charm to an all-time high, half-flirting, half-cross-examining. “Seriously, though”—she threw him a mischievous grin—“you don’t expect me to believe you can just walk around healing whoever you want?”

“You can believe whatever you like.” He smiled back.

“That choice is up to you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Hey,” he teased back, “everybody is wrong once in a while.”

The audience ate it up. His honesty, his sense of humor, the obvious ease and joy he had in talking with her—it was all there, as the two continued the playful banter. But Conrad knew it wouldn’t last forever. Charlene Marshal did not get where she was through good-natured chitchat. And, true to form, once she’d put her guest at ease, she brought out the big guns.

“So, you’re telling me you can heal any physical aliment you want?”

“Physical sickness is of minor concern.”