Rescue

crouching way and edged past my mentor, who seemed shocked. I was on a crouching run toward the front and the exiting Wyeths before the deputy and the man with the small head converged on me. The deputy was strong, but the huge man was a mountain. I cried out, “Reverend, Reverend Royel!“
    There was enough in my voice to make him turn. Wyeth saw the wad of money in my hand, now fanned so he could appreciate the denominations.
    “Reverend, I just want the Church to have this money, and these men won’t let me give it to you.“
    He stared at me. Into me. Then, “Cody.“
    The man with the small head grunted something.
    Wyeth said, “Cody,“ with a little more juice behind it.
    Cody turned his small head. Wyeth said, “You and Deputy Billups let this good man through.“
    Another grunt.
    “Let him through.”
    Lutrice tried to say something to her husband, but Wyeth just held up one hand as a silencer, reaching for my “donation“ with the other as Cody and Deputy Billups loosened but didn’t release their grip.
    Taking the money, Wyeth looked at it, then back to me. “I hope you don’t believe this buys you any -thing but the Lord’s Gratitude.“
    “It’s the Church’s money, Reverend.“
    Wyeth seemed to hear the sincerity, if not the irony, in my voice. Nodding, he said, “Then the humble shall be exalted. You will take supper with me now?“
    Lutrice started to protest, but the hand rose again, and she didn’t seem to want to challenge him, at least not in public.
    “I’d love to, Reverend,“ I said.
    “Then so ye shall.“ As almost an aside to his wife, he added, “There is al -ways room at the Lord’s Table for a just man.“
    Given the look I got from Sister Lutrice, I hoped she’d be far away from the Lord’s Kitchen.
    * * *

    We walked to a pony tent set in a small copse of trees and flowers that looked tended rather than natural. The scent of some kind of bug spray filled the air, and a few flying insects vaporized on the blue lights that intermingled with lanterns hung from tent posts. A large picnic table was flanked by benches, a navy and white checkered tablecloth over it. Pitchers of what looked like Hawaiian Punch and iced tea stood in tandem with baskets of biscuits and tubs of butter. The sound and smell of sizzling chicken came from three of those bubble-top barbecues staffed by women wearing JESUS LOVES ME... AND YOU, TOO! aprons over their white outfits.
    We sat the way my plump mentor thought of us: Royel Wyeth at the head of the table, Sister Lutrice at his right hand, me at his left. Cody and Deputy Billups sat respectively next to Lutrice and me. Some white outfits, including the concise woman who’d escorted me to and from Lutrice’s office, filled up the rest of the benches. No one spoke except the Reverend, there apparently being no conversation worth having except his.
    He said to me, “And your name, Good Christian?“
    “Francis. John Francis.“
    “You seem a bit warm in that shirt, Brother John. From what part of this fine country do you hail?“
    “Boston.“
    “Boston. Home to Cot -ton Mather, In -crease Mather, and many others who spread the Word of God. Tell me, John, have you ever visited the city of Salem?“
    “Yes, Reverend.“
    “And is it as... dramatic as the Christian Histories would have us believe?“
    I looked to Lutrice, who looked coldly back. To Wyeth, I said, “Dramatic?“
    He regarded me strangely. “Yes. The witch trials.“
    I gave it a beat. “I’m not sure any of the public buildings involved in the trials are still standing, but there is a museum about that era.“
    “Yes. Well, mu- se -ums never quite capture the... es -sence of an event, do they?“
    “I guess not, Reverend.“
    “Of course not. In order to feel His power, His Maj- e sty, in order to experience it, one must be where such events occurred. A certain spirit continues to per -vade such places.“
    “Yes, Reverend.“
    “Ah, a Good Pil- grim, John, a Good Pilgrim you are. Lutrice, would you do the honor of pouring John a beverage while the good sisters serve our meal?“
    Very evenly, Lutrice said to me, “Punch or iced tea, John?“
    “Iced tea, please.“
    Before she finished with the pitcher, the three aproned women were dishing out chicken parts, potato salad, and coleslaw. When all at the table were served, the women set down their platters and bowls and bowed their heads.
    Royel Wyeth then bowed his head, eyes closed. Everyone else at the