Mark Dunn - American Decameron

Ms. Smith thought for a moment. Then she said, indicating Ms. Swearingen with a presentational upturned palm, “This woman makes my skin crawl.”

“How horrible!” blurted the indignant subject of Ms. Smith’s sudden wrath. “I’ve said nothing unkind to this woman. Not a single word!”

“That’s right,” spat Ms. Smith, “and you didn’t say an unkind word to me when I phoned you last year either. You ignored my phone calls and didn’t respond to a single one of my letters.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Susie placed a calming hand on Ms. Smith’s shoulder. The shoulder was bobbing up and down as she gave in to a flood of tears. But she would not go back to her seat.

Ms. Smith pointed at Ms. Swearingen, and, choking back further waterworks, spoke in a voice that was both bitter and achingly plaintive: “My daughter, Cassie — last year she was seventeen. Last year she was very troubled, emotionally unstable. We were trying to get her help — to, to find her a doctor, because things were getting so bad. She was an avid viewer of your show, Ms. Swearingen. She watched it every night. Some nights she’d be on the phone with one of your prayer counselors for nearly an hour after the program was over.”

“I hope that we were able to help her.”

“You weren’t. Prayer wasn’t what Cassie needed. She needed a doctor, Ms. Swearingen — a doctor of psychiatry. She was cutting herself, burning herself with the lit ends of cigarettes. Your people told her that God would help her to stop if she only prayed hard enough.”

Tricia Swearingen took a deep breath and then blew it all out in one long exhalation. “Yes, I remember that girl. To be very honest, Ms. Smith, our lawyers advised me not to take your calls or to engage in any written correspondence with you. They anticipated that you might be considering legal action against my husband and me and thought that this was the best course to keep the situation from escalating.”

“But Hal and I aren’t like that. We never even thought about suing you or your show. Even after Cassie wound up in the emergency room.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Smith, but you simply cannot blame my husband or me for whatever has happened to your daughter. Luke and I have always preached that the Lord helps those who help themselves. It is the lynchpin of our ministry.”

“You heal people on your show — right there in front of everybody. Cassie believed with all her heart that you and your husband, as instruments of God, could heal her —could make her stop wanting to hurt herself. She believed this. She prayed and prayed and waited for these terrible impulses to go away. They never did. She attributed this to the fact that Satan had taken hold of her. One of your telephone counselors told her that there was a battle being waged inside her for her soul. The counselor told her that she must be strong to force the Devil out. Cassie tried to force the Devil out of her one night. In the bathtub. She nearly ended up drowning herself.

“Your people aren’t trained to deal with people like Cassie. You’re playing with fire. You pretend to heal people who come to your revival services, and those watching — they substitute the wild-eyed faith they see on your program for the scientific care of doctors. And you take their money. You’re happy to take the money these people give you.”

For a long moment Ms. Swearingen didn’t respond. She was trembling. She pulled herself together, and then she said, “There is good that we do. Behind all the theatrics, my husband and I have made quiet differences in the lives of a great many people.”

“Whether or not this is true, all I see is the circus.”

“Where is your daughter now? What can I do for her?”

“She’s in a psychiatric hospital, Ms. Swearingen. She’s making progress. We hope that she’ll be released soon. They don’t let her watch your program there. They don’t let any of the patients watch your show. There is a man there. He thinks he’s the Messiah. He talks of wonders and miracles. He must be carefully watched. That man is no different from your husband, Ms. Swearingen. He is no different from you.”

The pilot announced that the plane would soon be experiencing a little turbulence and all passengers should keep to their seats and buckle up. Susie took this as an opportunity to once again request that Ms. Smith sit down.

“I’ll be serving the meal very soon. I’ve got a wonderful salmon and dill salad for you.”

Ms. Smith nodded. Indicating Ms. Swearingen with a tip of the head, she said to Susie, “‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.’”

“Psalm 23,” said Ms. Swearingen numbly.

Ms. Smith nodded. “I neglected to mention that I’m a preacher’s daughter. My late father had a country church.” She smiled at the memory. “Just like the little brown church in the vale.”

Nothing else was said by either of the two women for the remainder of the flight. After deplaning, I remained at the gate and watched as several of Ms. Swearingen’s enthusiastic followers rushed toward her with flowers and balloons and signs that read “Welcome Home,” “Cincinnati Loves You, Tricia!” and “God Bless Sister Swearingen.” A couple of preteen girls shoved pen and paper at her, soliciting her autograph. I watched as Ms. Smith made her way over to a man I assumed to be her husband and the teenaged girl who stood next to him. I guessed that this was Cassie, and that she had just been let out of the hospital. The joy on Ms. Smith’s face at seeing her daughter all but confirmed it.

As Ms. Swearingen and her entourage swept past, Cassie looked over at her. At the same time Ms. Swearingen seemed to be making every effort not to acknowledge any of the Smiths — Cassie included. Cassie’s parents watched their daughter and then exchanged nervous glances. But their discomfort was quickly dispelled by Cassie’s loving smile for her mother and father and the double embrace that followed.

The Swearingens’ hold on young Cassie had, apparently, been broken.

A couple of weeks later, during my weekly visit with my grandmother at the nursing home, I asked her casually if she was still a regular viewer of The Hour of Faith . She shook her head regretfully. “They stopped healing people on the show last week,” she said. “It isn’t as much fun anymore. I watch Jim and Tammy Faye now. Tammy Faye’s a hoot. She’s a real scream, that one.”

Okay, so it’s the end of June, and it’s hot and muggy, and I can think of a lot of other things I’d rather be doing this particular weekend than driving all the way down to Kansas City to attend my thirtieth high school reunion, though as secretary of our class, I’m pretty much expected to show up. For Pete’s sake, I live in southern Minnesota, not Iglooville, Alaska. I’ve really got no good excuse not to go.

So Vern and I pack our brand-new white 1982 Celebrity with Pringles and pop and all of our Peter, Paul, and Mary cassettes, and head down I-35. Vern’s always such a good sport about this kind of stuff, and that’s why I haven’t divorced him.

The members of the planning committee are so cheap they decided to hold the main event in the high school gymnasium. I mean, what’s wrong with the ballroom of some nice hotel? Or renting out some slightly upscale restaurant in the Plaza? But they say the gymnasium is in keeping with the nostalgia theme. I ask you, what high school reunion doesn’t have a nostalgia theme? And besides, it isn’t even our gym. Our gym was torn down ten years ago along with the rest of the school. Most of us have never even set foot in this new building — a building that, incidentally, wouldn’t make a person nostalgic for much of anything unless she’s got a thing for bad 1970s architecture. And to make matters worse, they even changed the name. It isn’t Harry S. Truman High School anymore. Now it’s Bess Truman High School, because somebody on the Kansas City school board decided that the former first lady deserved to have a school named after her, even though she isn’t even dead yet (she’s ninety-seven and could very well live to be ninety-eight). And boy are they proud to be beating Independence to the punch for a change. Independence always had bragging rights to the Trumans and all those one-man-one-wife Mormons. Kansas City only has the Chiefs and the Royals (excuse me while I yawn.) And strip steak.