Revival Season - Monica West (10 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

“Deacon and Micah Johnson,” the words sputtered out. “I must admit that I’m surprised to see you here.” His eyes darted in their sockets, and his bottom lip quivered with rage. His jittery hands made oily stains on his suit pants. The congregation that had seen him march Micah to the pulpit during his triumphant return tour grew silent.

“What ails you, Micah?” He was breaking with precedent because healings were always quiet and never meant to be broadcast over a microphone.

“She got sick again, Reverend Horton.”

Papa took a big step back as though Deacon Johnson’s words had force. “What do you mean, got sick again?” He was supposed to be talking to Micah, but the angry words that he spat through clenched teeth were directed toward Deacon Johnson.

“You healed her, and we’re grateful, but there’s been a setback.”

As I stared at the graying patch at the back of Deacon Johnson’s head, I imagined the hope in his eyes at the renewed request for his only daughter’s healing. But only new Christians believed in do-over healings, and Deacon Johnson had been a Christian longer than most people in this church had been alive.

“A setback? You have to be mistaken.”

“No mistake. It came back. The diabetes. About a week ago.” Deacon Johnson flung words out at a frantic pace.

“We just wanted you to try it again. Please.”

“You know that healings are as much about faith as anything else.”

“I do know that. But I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask you again.”

“How weak is your faith, Ray?” Papa roared. The microphone’s feedback obscured his words and droned louder, even as he seemingly tried to yell over it. A hollow tap on the mouthpiece was a thunderclap. Papa must have just realized that he was speaking into the microphone because he pulled the black wire from behind his ear, and it clanged to the carpet with a wave of static.

He was backed into a corner: he could either walk away or heal her. And with all those people watching, he wasn’t going to walk away. So he flipped the lid off the bottle of holy oil without removing his gaze from Micah and her father. Then Papa took quick steps toward her, and his healing words soon reached a crescendo.

His hand all but smacked Micah’s head, making her reel backward into her father, who caught her. My fingertips tingled as he pressed his hands on her forehead, and I slid them under my thighs. The healing words were faint, but even though I couldn’t hear anything, I could tell the cadence was off. He wasn’t even trying. And Papa didn’t close his eyes to summon the power of God: he stared at Deacon Johnson even as he declared Micah healed.

Papa knelt to pick up the microphone. He closed his eyes for a moment, then threaded the wire behind his ear before walking toward the edge of the sanctuary and exiting through the door that led to his office. A few seconds later, Deacon Johnson rushed from Micah’s side and followed Papa through the door. A handful of deacons and Caleb stood in front of the congregation and helped people to their feet.

Micah was in a daze as she walked back up the middle aisle—her forehead gleamed in the overhead light. Her stiff movements were slow and rehearsed as she returned to the seat next to me. She refused to meet my gaze.

“What did you do back there?” It was Papa’s voice from the other side of the wall. He must have forgotten that his microphone was still on. “Are you trying to make a fool of me, Ray?”

“It’s a healing service. I wanted you to heal her.” Deacon Johnson’s reply was muffled at first, but it got clearer and louder as I imagined him stepping closer to Papa.

“You could have come to me privately. How dare you show me up?”

“How could I be showing you up? You’re a healer, right? Unless you’re not. Correct me if I’m wrong.” On the last word, I imagined Papa lunging at him like a rabid dog before getting jerked back by a chain.

“It’s my daughter, Sam,” Deacon Johnson continued with uncharacteristic boldness. “My only daughter. Did you expect me to do nothing? What would you do if it had been Miriam?” At the mention of my name, my skin prickled like all the eyes in the room were on me.

“Or better yet, Hannah?” Deacon Johnson knew that Hannah was always off-limits. Papa’s Achilles’ heel.

Hannah looked around for the origin of the voice saying her name, and I pulled her hand into my lap. Caleb rushed toward the door while the rest of us were pressed into the pews in some form of collective paralysis.

“Get the fuck away from me, Ray. Get the fuck out of my office and out of this church. Now. And I never want to see you back here again.”

Papa’s curses slapped the air, followed by shrieks and gasps from the crowd. Ma sank into the pew.

The door leading into the sanctuary was thrust open, and Deacon Johnson walked toward the congregation with an ashen face. Micah had been sitting next to me, wooden, but as Deacon Johnson slid back up the middle aisle, she came to life, grabbing her Bible and standing up to meet him. I reached for her; my fingers wrapped around the protruding bone of her wrist before sliding to her hand. She looked down, puzzled, like my hand was a foreign appendage.

“Micah.” It was hard to know what to say to her in that moment. I squeezed her wrist tighter. We had a million silent languages—she’d be able to understand if she would just look at me, but she was still surveying my hand.

“Micah,” Deacon Johnson’s voice snapped from the aisle. She looked over at him.

“I’m sorry,” I mouthed, tugging her back toward me. I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for: for her sickness, or my dad’s pride, or the fact that she wasn’t healed after