The Warning (11 page)

There was some scattered applause and more than a little muted conversation as Buddy made his way over. He gripped the sides of the podium, feeling the grainy wood under his fingers. He looked out over the hall and remained silent. He was no longer afraid. That was not why he did not speak. He was silent because there before him in that sea of strange faces Buddy caught a glimpse of his own future. Traveling from place to place, passing on from church to Bible study to gathering, moving farther and farther from the town of his birth. Spreading a message of doom.

“Buddy.” Clarke leaned over his empty chair, and gave his quiet smile. “It's all right, brother.”

And suddenly it was all right. Perfectly all right. Buddy found himself abruptly sheltered within invisible wings of love, safe in the arms of the same Lord who had asked for his help. Buddy looked out over the murmuring crowd, and quietened them by simply starting with his story. How he had started having nightmares. How the Bible passage had risen up before his eyes. How the message had been given to him after a day of fasting.

He stopped there, expecting some back talk and mutterings. But the hall remained silent. Utterly still. So Buddy continued with how he had then asked for signs, looking directly at his brother as he explained what he had asked for. He felt anew the stab of pain over Alex's illness, an ache so deep that he caught his breath and stopped.

Which, as it turned out, was a very good thing.

A man seated at the center of the table to his right suddenly rose to his feet. It was a gradual change, almost as if the man was lifted up by invisible strings. But what raised the hairs on Buddy's neck was the expression on his face.

The man wore a look of blinding ecstasy.

One by one other people around the hall followed Buddy's gaze. The man remained as he was, hanging limply and yet erect. And as silent as the rest of the room.

Then it happened.

There came the sound of a rushing wind. A spark of joy so powerful it
leaped
from person to person and
rushed
through the room. From where Buddy stood, it looked like an instantaneous storm ignited the entire chamber. Some people remained seated, others rose and stood at their places. But no one spoke. Not a word, not a sound. Only the rushing wind. A deeply drumming crescendo of the power of God.

As swiftly as it came, it passed. In its place was a vacuum, interspaced here and there with the quiet sound of weeping. Buddy looked out over the crowd, waiting for people to resume their seats. He had not felt a thing. But he had seen it. And though he was sorry not to have had the experience anew, he was glad all the same. He did not think he would have been able to speak if he had been caught up once again.

“I have something more to tell you,” Buddy said, and he waited until all eyes were once more fastened upon him. There was a new focus to the room, a desperate desire to hear what he had to say. Which was good. Because he then delivered the second part of the message. And that was far more surprising than the warning itself.

–|
|
FIFTEEN
|
|–

Thirty-Five Days . . .

When Buddy arrived home from work Tuesday he was struck by a panic attack. Cars filled his drive and spilled out along the front curb. Then he recognized all but one of them and breathed a little easier.

He had hardly stepped through the doorway before he heard four voices squeal impossibly high and saw two white-blond-haired and two auburn-haired girls come racing from the kitchen. “Granddaddy!”

“A family gathering. Just what I need.” It seemed as if the sun rose in his heart at the sight. “How are my princesses?”

He sank down and allowed himself to be engulfed by his four granddaughters. It was like trying to hold a basketful of wiggling puppies. Meredith and Macon belonged to Paul, his older son. They were almost exactly the same age as Jennifer and Veronica since Jack, his younger boy, had married while still in school, whereas Paul had waited to start his family. Buddy tried to envelop all four girls at once and wished there were some way to stop time from advancing. He would have loved to spend the rest of his days with these little angels, just as they were right now.

“You didn't hug me, Grandpa.”

“Yes, he did. I saw him.”

“Well, he didn't hug me enough.”

“I cut my thumb. Will you kiss it?”

“I got an
A
on my coloring today. The teacher put it on the board for everybody to look at.”

Buddy kissed the Band-Aid on one little finger, looked up to where Molly and his two daughters-in-law were watching and smiling, and said, “This is just the medicine I needed.”

“Did you have a hard day?”

“Let's see.” He rose to his feet, keeping his hands down low to hold the little forms close. “The entire morning was spent writing letters to three hundred customers telling them to oppose the bank's new credit-card policy. Then after lunch word filtered back to the branch manager about my speech last night. That's when things got interesting.”

“Oh, Buddy.”

“It occurred to me about then that it might be a good idea to take some vacation. I've got almost a month stored up.” He looked at Molly. “I know we were planning to use it for that trip out West, but I don't think I could bear trying to handle the bank and this new work at the same time.”

Molly gave him a quiet smile. “You were the one who wanted to go out West. Not me.”

“I wanted to take you off somewhere.”

“It looks like I'll be traveling with you now,” she said, clearly at ease with how things were.

All six females were watching him—his two daughters-in-law and his four granddaughters—waiting to see his reaction. It was not the time to show worry. “Where are the boys?”

“Out back, keeping the company occupied.”

“Company?”

“Wait, don't tell him yet.” Trish was Jack's wife, as petite as Molly and as auburn-haired as her two girls. “I want you to see something first before you get all worked up.” She raced back into the kitchen.

Buddy started to ask worked up about what, but the four granddaughters stuffed little hands in their mouths to stop their giggles and did excited dances in place. He put on his sternest face. “Jennifer, what on earth is your mother up to?”

“You'll see.” She beamed up at him. “Something good.”

“Veronica, you'd better tell me right quick.”

“It's a surprise.”

“I didn't have time to wrap it, Dad.” Trish reappeared, flushed and flustered. “We just picked it up from the framer's on the way over here.”

Trish did scrollwork and etchings for a number of the local shops. Buddy watched as she rushed over, hugging a frame to her chest. “What have you been up to, Daughter?”

This brought forth another paroxysm of giggles from the four little girls. Shyly, Trish raised the frame for him to see. “I hope you like it.”

A simple, gold passe-partout framed three different pastels and bestowed a sense of colorful depth. At its center, words were scrolled in rich blue and edged in gold. They came from First Corinthians, and said:

Pursue love, and desire spiritual gifts, but especially that you may prophesy. He who prophesies speaks edification and exhortation and comfort to men. He who prophesies edifies the church.

“I'm very proud of you,” Trish said quietly.

“I don't know what to say,” Buddy told them all.

“We'll hang it in your den,” Molly suggested.

“We're all proud of you, Dad.” Anne, Paul's wife, was a statuesque blond whose warmth drew people like a flame. She gave Buddy a quick hug. “I'll go tell the boys you're here.”

He looked up from the picture and asked, “What was that about company?”

“Alex called and asked if it was okay to bring him around,” Molly replied. “I said yes.”

“Bring who?”

“A reporter,” she answered. “From
The Wall Street Journal
.”

“I find it surprising that somebody from
The Wall Street Journal
would come all this way to talk with me,” Buddy said.

“I've been in Wilmington working on another story.” He ground his cigarette in the house's only ashtray, which was why he was sitting on the back porch. Molly was allergic to tobacco smoke. “You know the Chemtel Corporation, of course, they're the biggest employer in this area. They were in the final stages of acquiring a local company.”

“I think I heard something about that.”

“The sale price was somewhere in the vicinity of a half billion dollars. This morning the chairman of Chemtel called it off. He gave several reasons, but he said in a private interview with me that the most important explanation was your speech last night.”

“I see.” Buddy was seated beside his elder son. Paul's silent presence was comforting. Alex sat at the picnic table's far end. From this perspective, it was easy to see how Alex's features had run like wax left in hot sunlight, weathered and wearied by crushed dreams and hard living. And now this illness.

Buddy glanced to where Jack, his second son, sat watching him from alongside the journalist. He could see Molly's face stamped there, her spiked features, her quiet watchfulness. Buddy felt immensely comforted by this gathering of family. Especially now. “Well, what would you like to know?”

“Do you mind if I record this?” The journalist's name was Chad, a sharp young man who spoke with only the slightest twinge of New York to his speech. His features were as crisp as his starched shirt. His hair was razor cut, his spectacles round tortoiseshell. His tie probably cost as much as Buddy's suit. He looked like every young New Yorker on the move Buddy had ever met.

Chad set the recorder on the table between them, checked to make sure it was running, and asked, “Could you tell me a little about what was behind your talk last night, Mr. Korda?”

“You follow the stock market trends more closely than I do. I'm sure you've heard anything I can tell you a dozen times before.”

“Sure,” Chad agreed. “But I was led to believe that there was something more behind your performance.”

“It wasn't a performance,” Buddy countered. “I simply shared with a group of businessmen my concerns over the future.”

“That's not what I heard. From what I was told, you knocked them off their feet. Literally.”

It felt to Buddy as though the family members were granting him their strength, giving him the capacity to say, “Are you a believer, Chad?”

“Am I a . . . ?” He adjusted his spectacles. “I'm paid to be objective, Mr. Korda.”

“There is no such thing.” Buddy felt the autumn sunlight beating down upon his shoulders. The warmth was magnified by the eyes on him. His two sons, his brother, all watching and helping in their silent way. “Objectivity is an excuse from those who prefer to keep life and faith at an emotional arm's distance. If you are not a believer, then claiming objectivity is a mask. If you are a believer, it will color every action, every thought, every feeling.”

“Let's get this back on track.” Chad leaned across the table. “We were talking about your speech last night. A couple of the people I interviewed were calling you a prophet.”

“Then you'll have to talk to them about that.” Strange that he was not the least bit troubled about all this. Chad's confrontational attitude rolled off him like rain on his car's windshield. “The Bible says that prophecy is for believers, not unbelievers. So unless you can speak to me openly as a believer, we will need to hold our discussion to market trends.”

“Then let's just say I am a believer, for the sake of argument.”

“There should never be arguments between believers,” Buddy replied, not even needing to think it out.

“Okay, for discussion's sake, then.” A trace of anger glinted through the spectacles.

“Then I would invite you to lead us in a word of prayer and ask the Lord to direct us forward,” Buddy responded.

Chad watched him for a silent moment, his features tight. Finally he conceded, “You wanted to tell me something about trends?”

“Certainly. Anyone in banking is aware of current dangers. Or they should be. During the past five years, increases in stock values have added almost four trillion dollars to household savings. And this is extremely widespread, with more than half of all U.S. households owning stocks and mutual funds.” Buddy had been watching these trends for years, and worrying for just as long. “The problem is, this is not
confirmed
wealth. This is
theoretical
wealth.”

“If stock prices have risen and people own the stocks, then I don't see how this could be considered theoretical,” the journalist countered sharply, still angered by his inability to steer the discussion as he would have preferred.

“It remains theoretical so long as people have not cashed in,” Buddy answered. “They see the figures on their monthly statements, they watch how the values rise, and this affects their planning. But because they see how fast the stock values are rising, they
don't
cash in. Instead, they
increase their debt
. They borrow money to spend in the moment, expecting to be able to cash their stock holdings sometime in the future.”

“That should make a banker like yourself very pleased.”

“I can't be pleased when I see this debt based on false expectations,” Buddy contradicted. “In this same period, household debt has jumped more than fifty percent, and today totals over
six
trillion dollars. This means if you measure the increase in stock prices versus the increase in debt, the net result is a
decline
in personal net worth of over two trillion dollars. This is an incredible shift, especially since it has happened so swiftly—in just five short years. Do you see where this is headed?”

“Suppose you tell me.”