Rescue

dressed woman with rosy cheeks despite the temperature, which still felt close to ninety. Holding a leather handbag in her lap, the woman smiled at me. I sat down, and I wouldn’t have blamed her for laughing at me.
    I’d nearly fallen over in the folding chair, it being set on a kind of rounded gravel that gave when I put weight into it. Catching myself, I said, “Excuse me.“
    “Oh, that’s all right. Happens to everyone their first time here for Worship.“
    Sensing I might have a mentor, I said, “Why don’t they just have grass under the tent, like outside?“
    The smug smile of an avid mentor. “Well, two reasons, the grass won’t grow without sunlight, and this tent’s up year-round.“
    “Good point. What’s the other reason?“
    “Snakes.“
    “Snakes?“
    “Yes. They live in the grass, but don’t like to come over the stones. Too exposed, I imagine. We’ve only got a few poisonous kinds on the Keys, but it wouldn’t do to have people jumping up from their chairs at the wrong time during the Worship, would it?“
    “Sure wouldn’t.“
    Young, white-outfitted men and women began moving down the center aisle passing collection baskets. Their counterparts on the outside tent-flap aisles kept the baskets moving briskly through the crowd.
    To my mentor, I said, “You come to these... to the tent here often?“
    “Oh, whenever I can. Live Worship is really the best way to see any Prophet, and the Reverend Royel sits at the Right Hand of the Savior in my book. The Good Book, that is.“
    We laughed together at her joke. “How about Sister Lutrice?“
    “Just to the right of the Reverend.“
    The basket for our row reached her. I was stunned when she dropped a hundred into it, but I managed to do the same with two of Lonnie Severn’s fifties. Passing the basket, I said, “I was a little surprised there was no fee charged.“
    “What do you mean, to get in the tent here?“
    “Or to park.“ M
    “Oh my gracious, they charge for parking where you’re from?“
    “For major events.“
    “Well, not here. No, the Reverend Royel depends on the generosity of his flock for that.“
    I tried to notice the contributions out of the corner of my eye. Most bills going in were twenties or higher, even from some folks whose clothes suggested they didn’t clear that in a day. Based on what I saw, the members of Wyeth’s flock were generous to the point of impoverishing themselves.
    The place had filled up, and the plump woman graciously moved a seat toward me a second before I would have had to move toward her. The air inside the tent was approaching the level of a steam bath, my damp shirt clinging to my chest and back.
    “Cozy,“ I said.
    “Oh, you’re lucky you got here as early as you did. There’ll be standing room only when the Worship starts. In fact—“
    Her next words, if any, were drowned out by the roar of the previously sedate crowd, leaping to its collective feet as I spotted just the top of Royel Wyeth’s big hair move across the tabernacle toward a low altar. So far I’d seen only the small, still photos in Lonnie Severn’s pamphlets. Once the crowd was back in its seats, I began to appreciate just what the plump woman had meant.
    Lutrice Wyeth was resplendent in a navy blue gown, tasteful as a bridal dress and much less revealing. Royel Wyeth wore a suit the same color as his wife’s dress, but with a white starched shirt and boloed string tie, like his parking attendants and security guards. Wyeth himself wasn’t that tall, and I suspected that, unlike Chief Pettengill in New Hampshire, the Reverend just might take advantage of some orthopedic help in the height department. But after a masterful, if somewhat stagy, introduction and benediction by Sister Lutrice, the floor was yielded to her husband, who lived up to every aspect of his billing.
    The eyes under the pomaded, silvery hair engaged you, even twelve rows back. His face was full and a little flushed, beads of perspiration twinkling under the strong lights on him. But he’d learned the trick of focusing on a different face for each sentence, so that face would stay glued to him throughout the performance, afraid to be later caught not looking. His hands moved as though they were fine instruments, accompanying his speech as featured soloist. And what a speech. His voice was rolling thunder, exhorting each of us to examine his or her life anew.
    “…And the Lord God has said this unto us, to each and every one