Millie gets out of bed and draws back the curtain, noting the small Sterno campfires and portable lights of the TV reporters' cameramen. Is it her imagination, or have they nearly doubled in number?
Millie knows Hollywood Tonight! is still here; unlike most of the TV reporters, who have about three or four people around when they make their daily broadcasts, Petra Saganoff seems to need eight or ten. She's got lights and makeup people and men carrying machines that do God knows what. Personally, Millie could do without Petra Saganoff. If there's going to be reporting, she'd rather see that nice Peter Jennings, in the bush vest he wears when he goes on location.
It's just as well that Faith and Mariah are gone. From the looks of things at the end of the driveway, they're going to need a second policeman before long, to keep order. Mariah was unsettled by a handful of people; how would she react to this? With a sigh, Millie gets back into bed. She shuts off the light, then flicks it on and lifts up the receiver of the telephone beside the bed to make sure the dial tone is working, just in case.
Lake Perry, Kansas--October 20, 1999
To Mariah's surprise, Ian leaves shortly after breakfast. "Gotta earn a living," he says, grabbing the car keys and striding out the door as if spending another moment in their company were too painful to bear. He has not mentioned his nightmare, and Mariah decides that this must be the reason he's running--embarrassment can't rest easily on the shoulders of a man like him.
"How come he gets to go somewhere?" Faith grumbles. "And we have to stay in this ugly place where there's nothing to do?"
"Maybe we'll take a walk. Find a phone and call Grandma."
This sparks Faith's interest. "Then she'll come here?"
"In a little while, maybe. We need her to watch our house right now."
Faith empties more cereal into her bowl. "There's a whole bunch of people watching our house. She doesn't have to do that, too."
Mariah stands at the window as Ian drives away. He's taking the car, granted, but that wouldn't stop them from walking to town and hailing a taxi, returning to the airport and hopping on a new flight. Mariah assumed, when he'd offered his protection, that his good intentions were really much more selfish--what better way to observe Faith than to live in close quarters? Still, she'd figured that Ian would see of Faith only what she let him see--so she'd acquiesced. However, she had expected him to stick to her and Faith like glue.
Instead, he seems almost to...trust them.
She watches Faith lift the cereal bowl to her mouth to drink the remaining milk and starts to warn her about manners, but then stops. With so many rules to follow now that they are hiding, letting this one small thing slip cannot hurt.
She's reasoned out what dangers Faith has to face living with Ian Fletcher, but not herself. What she'd forgotten was that it was much easier to dislike a television character than an ordinary man. To see Ian's shoes tucked under the edge of the couch or his papers strewn over the coffee table--even to walk into the bathroom and smell the faint mixture of cedar and soap that clings to his skin--well, it makes him real. It changes him from a two-dimensional cultural icon with a hell-bent desire to expose Faith into someone with feelings, doubts, even nightmares.
If Ian Fletcher is able to trust them enough to leave them alone, can't Mariah trust him enough to believe that renting this cabin for them was not a selfish act, but a kind one?
She turns to Faith. "Let's get dressed. We're leaving."
It nearly breaks Ian's heart to buy clothes at Kmart. A man who owns Armani suits and Bruno Magli shoes shouldn't be reduced to shopping off the bargain rack for jeans and tennis shoes, but he knows that he's less likely to be recognized there by a dull-eyed clerk than by a salesperson at a more exclusive boutique. He stands at the checkout, behind a mother with three children screaming for candy, and surveys the collection of items in his basket.
"Did you find everything you needed?" the clerk asks.
It's blissfully quiet; the mother has succumbed and is wheeling out her children, their fingers digging into packets of M&M's. On impulse, Ian grabs another one off the shelf and tosses it onto the checkout counter, for Faith. "I believe so."
At the sound of his voice, the woman looks up. She squints a little, trying to connect the Southern drawl with the face. For a moment, Ian thinks the jig might be up...but then she returns to scanning the items. She must have decided he's a look-alike. After all, what would the illustrious Ian Fletcher be doing in a Kmart?
"Oh, I love this," the woman says, holding up a shirt-and-legging set with Tweety Bird screen-printed on the front. "Got one for my own daughter."
Ian's picked it out for Faith. He realized last night that they couldn't have much in those knapsacks, and would need clothes for this unexpected stay just as much as he did. Unfortunately, he's confounded by children's sizes. What the hell is the difference between a 7 and a 7X?
It was easier to find clothing for Mariah. All he had to do was imagine how high she came up on his chest, how wide her hips were and how small her waist, and he could easily match her body type to one of the many women he'd dated. She has a lovely figure, actually, but he found himself tossing into the shopping cart baggy jeans and flannel shirts, oversized sweatshirts--things that would keep her covered, that wouldn't draw his attention.
"That comes to one twenty-three thirty-nine," the clerk says.
Ian unfolds his wallet and withdraws a stack of twenties. He carries the bags to the rental car, gets inside, and then takes out his cell phone to call his producer.
"Wilton here."
"Well, it's a damn good thing one of us is," Ian jokes.
"Ian? Christ, I've been going crazy. You want to tell me where the fuck you are?"
"Sorry, James. I know I said I'd be back last night, but there was...a family emergency."
"I thought you didn't have any family."
"All the same, I'm going to be tied up for a while." Ian taps his fingers on the steering wheel, knowing that there's nothing James can do. Without Ian, there isn't a show.
"How long is a while?" James says after a moment.
"I don't know just yet. I'm definitely going to miss the Friday broadcast, though. You'll have to do a rerun."
He can practically see James seething. "Well, that's just fabulous, Ian, because we've already run the promos for a live show. Plus, there are about ninety reporters here, including a few national affiliates, who are dying to get the story. Maybe I ought to go ask one of them to stand in for you."
Ian laughs. "By all means, try Dan Rather. He did a real fine impression of me on Saturday Night Live, once."
"I'm glad you're so fucking congenial today. Because you're not gonna have more than a smile left to pitch when your show goes down the toilet."
"Now, James, you relax before you bust a gut. Faith White isn't even there, right?"
There's a beat of silence. "How did you know that?"
"I have my sources. And I'm only doing what I told you I'd be doing--following a story on the road."
James draws in his breath. "Are you saying you're with her?"
"I'm saying that just 'cause I'm not three feet away from you doesn't mean I'm not still on top of things." He glances at his watch. Christ, by now Mariah and Faith could be halfway across Missouri--but it was a chance he had to take. He'd learned long ago that the best way to catch a butterfly was not to chase it at all, but to remain so still that it made the choice to light on your shoulder. "Gotta go, James. I'll be in touch."
Before his producer has a chance to protest, Ian turns off his phone and slips it into his coat pocket again. Then he drives back toward Camp Perry, slow enough to keep a watch out for a woman and a child who may have decided to leave on their own.
Mariah's sweating. Although it's fairly cool outside, Faith balked at walking about a mile down the road, so she had to carry her daughter piggyback all the way to the gas station. Then she called home, reversing the charges and speaking to her mother, while Faith whined about ge
tting candy.
"You're with who?" her mother had said.
"I know, I know. But we're going to leave." At that point Mariah had spotted the number of a local taxi service, etched into the wall of the pay-phone booth. "I'll call you when we find a place to settle."
As she speaks to the taxi dispatcher, she feels a thread of guilt drawing tight. Ian Fletcher has been nothing less than solicitous up to this point. For whatever reason, it is possible that his TV persona's ruthlessness is only an act.
Still, she isn't going to stick around to find out.
Faith is sitting on the floor, picking at dead bugs, when Mariah hangs up. The taxi will arrive in ten minutes. "What are you doing? You're going to be filthy."
"I want candy. I'm hungry."
Mariah digs into her pocket for fifty cents. "That's it. Get whatever you can for this amount." She wipes the sweat off her forehead and watches Faith choose peanut M&M's, hand them to the man working behind the counter. He smiles at Mariah; she smiles back.
"You're not from around here," the man says.
Mariah thinks she's going to be sick. "What makes you say that?"
He laughs. "I pretty much know everyone in town, and you're not one of those people. You get your taxi all right?"
He must have overheard her conversation. Mariah feels her mind spin into action. "Yes...my, uh, husband had an errand to run, and he was supposed to pick us up here after I made a phone call. But I think my daughter's running a fever, and I want to get her back to the motel...so we're just going to take a cab."
"I'd be happy to tell him where you went, when he comes looking."
"That would be great," Mariah says, edging toward the door, wanting nothing more than to cut short this conversation. "Honey, why don't we wait outside?"
"Good idea," the man says, although she hasn't included him in the invitation. "Wouldn't mind a little fresh air myself."
Resigned, Mariah walks out the glass door of the gas station and stands next to the pump, shading her eyes to see down the road for anything that remotely resembles a cab. But from the opposite direction a car speeds into the station, stopping a few feet away from them.
Ian gets out of the passenger seat, thrilled to have spotted Mariah and Faith. "Hey there." He smiles at Mariah. "Looking for a ride home?"
"Hope you got some roses, brother," the gas-station attendant says. "You're in the doghouse."
Ian continues to smile, puzzled, but all he can think of is something Faith once said, that her mother sneezes at roses. Before Mariah can stop her, Faith gets into the backseat of the car and sees the pile of bags on the floor. "What's this?"
"Presents. For you and your mama."
Faith pulls out the Tweety legging set, and a package of barrettes, and a sweatshirt with hearts all around the neckline. Then she tugs free a shirt that is clearly the right size for Mariah.
This is where he went this morning? To buy them all clothes?
"Guess you won't be needing the taxi," the attendant says. "I'll call the dispatcher."
"That...would be wonderful," Mariah manages.
Ian waves at the man, then gets into the car. Mariah slides into the front seat as well. "Guess y'all wanted to take a little walk around town," he says evenly. "I just happened to see you as I was driving by."
Faith pipes up from the backseat. "Good, because I was getting tired of walking."
Mariah tries to read an accusation in his words, tries to make him into the sort of man she had naturally assumed he was. He turns to her. "Course, I can take Faith back, if you'd still like to walk a spell."
"No," she says, to him and to herself. "This'll be just fine."
New Canaan, New Hampshire--October 22, 1999
Some people blamed it on the taxi driver who took the young Father Rourke to the train station. Others said it was clearly a reporter snooping. Months later, no one clearly remembered how word leaked from the visiting priest's files to those gathered outside Mariah White's house, but suddenly they all knew that the God Faith White was seeing happened to be female.
The Associated Press reporter's three-paragraph story ran in newspapers from L.A. to New York. Jay Leno did an irreverent monologue about a female Jesus being worried about the fashion statement made by a crown of thorns. A new group of devotees arrived on the edge of the White property, letting their dismay over Faith's absence only slightly dampen their enthusiasm. Numbering about one hundred, they came from Catholic colleges and church ladies' guilds and taught at parochial schools. Some had fought to be ordained as female priests, but had not succeeded. Armed with Bibles and texts by Naomi Wolf, they unrolled a hastily painted MOTHERGOD SOCIETY banner and very loudly chanted the Lord's Prayer in unison, changing the pronouns where necessary. They held up posters with photos retouched to look like holy cards and others that read YOU GO, GIRL!
They were bonded and raucous, like a women's hockey team, although most of the other followers camped outside did not consider them dangerous.
But then again, they did not know that the MotherGod Society had left another hundred members spread up and down cities on the East Coast, handing out pamphlets emblazoned with their amended Lord's Prayer and Faith White's name and address.
Manchester, NH--October 22, 1999
"What in the name of Saint Francis is this?" Bishop Andrews asks, recoiling from the pink pamphlet as if it were a rattlesnake. "'Our Mother, who art in Heaven?' Who wrote this garbage?"
"It's a new Catholic group, your Excellency," says Father DeSoto. "They're promoting an alleged New Hampshire visionary."
"Why does this sound familiar?"
"Because you spoke to Monsignor O'Shaughnessy about her a week ago. Father Rourke--the pastoral psychologist from St. John's--sent you his report by fax."
Bishop Andrews has not read the report. He spent the morning marching in the Pope Pius XII Parochial School's homecoming parade, positioned in an antique Ford in front of a very large percussion band that gave him a headache that has not yet gone away. Father DeSoto hands him a piece of paper. "'Definite lack of psychotic behavior...' He's too open-minded for his own good," Andrews mutters, then picks up the phone and dials the Boston seminary.
A female God. For Pete's sake!
Why send a pastoral psychologist, when this is clearly a case for a theologian?
Lake Perry, Kansas--October 22, 1999
That afternoon, Ian and Faith are playing hearts when Mariah falls asleep on the couch. One moment she is talking to them, and then the next, just like that, she's snoring. Ian watches her neck swan to the side, listens to the soft snore from her throat. God, he's jealous. To just be able to drift off like that...in the middle of the day...
Faith shuffles the cards and manages to send them flying. "Hey, Mr. Fletcher," she says, scrambling to pick them up, her voice strident.
"Sssh!" Ian nods toward the couch. "Your mama's asleep." He knows that having Faith in close, confined quarters with Mariah means it's more likely than not to be a quick rest. "How'd you like to go outside?" he whispers.
Faith pulls a face. "I don't want to play in the grass again. I did that this morning."
"I recall promising you some fishing." Ian remembers seeing an old rod and reel gathering dust in the shed beside the manager's office. "We could give that a try."
Faith glances from Ian to Mariah. "I don't think she'd want me to go."
Of course not, Ian thinks. Faith might unwittingly tip her hand. "A quick trip, then. What your mama doesn't know isn't gonna hurt her." He stands up and stretches. "Well, I'm gonna do some fishing anyway."
"Wait! I just have to get on my shoes."
He shrugs, pretending not to care whether he has company. But this is the first time he's been alone with Faith White, except for the night she ran away bleeding. There's so damn much he wants to know about her, he doesn't even know where to start.
It's crisp and cool outside, and the sun is hanging heavy in the sky. He walks with his hands in his pockets, whistling so
ftly, pretending not to notice how hard Faith is huffing and puffing to keep up with him. Retrieving the fishing rod and a small gardener's spade, Ian strikes out toward the lake.
He squats at the edge near a patch of cattails and offers Faith the small shovel. "You want to dig, or shall I?"
"You mean, like, for worms?"
"No, for buried treasure. What'd you think we were gonna use as bait?"
Faith takes the spade and makes a halfhearted attempt to overturn the thick marsh grass. Ian stares at the Band-Aids still on her hands, one on the outside and one on the inside of each palm. He, of course, has studied case histories of alleged stigmatics--in his profession, you have to know the competition. He remembers reading how painful the wounds are supposed to be, not that he really ever bought it. Still, he wrests the shovel from Faith. "Let me," he says gruffly.
He unearths a chunk of grass, peeling it back like a scalp to reveal several purple worms pulsing through the dirt. Faith wrinkles her nose. "Gross."
"Not if you're a largemouth bass." He gathers a few in a small plastic bag and directs Faith toward the dock. "You go on over there. Take the rod with you."
He finds her sitting with her bare feet dangling in the water. "Your mama finds you like that, she's going to pitch a fit."
Faith glances back over her shoulder. "The only way she'd find out is if you told her I'd come out here with you, and then she'd be too angry at you to yell at me."
"Guess we're partners in crime, then." Ian reaches out a hand to help her stand. "So--you know how to cast? Your daddy ever take you fishing?"
"Nope. Did yours?"
Just like that, his hand stills on Faith's. She's squinting up at him, her face partially hidden by shadows. "No," he says. "I don't reckon he did." He puts his arms around Faith from behind and closes his hands on hers. Her skin is warm and impossibly soft; he can feel her shoulder blades bumping against his chest. "Like this." He tips back the rod and lets the line fly.
"Now what?"
"Now we wait."
He sits beside Faith as she digs her thumbnail into the grooves in the planking of the dock. She lifts her face toward the setting sun and closes her eyes, and Ian finds himself mesmerized by the tiny beat in the hollow of her throat. There's a quiet between them he is almost unwilling to break, but his curiosity gets the better of him. "'Follow me,'" he says softly, watching for her reaction, "'and I will make you fishers of men.'"