Gary’s heart dropped, but then he thought no, it’s not possible. That was way too long ago, and I’ve been forgiven. There are all kinds of immigrants around here, all of them in need.
“Not a member in need, though?”
“Not one of ours.” Martha’s voice, thin and high-pitched, had a whiff of disdain, like she might smell something slightly bad in the air. But her long nose had pinched nostrils and Gary reminded himself that she often sounded that way. Jesus would know her heart and judge her soon enough at the Second Coming, so he refrained from chastising her. Since she was a member, he hoped she wouldn’t be among the Left Behind.
“Still, we minister, Sister Martha.” Gary tried a mild reminder, just in case Jesus was listening in.
“Didn’t ask for nothing. Tried to give her the daily prayer, but she didn’t want it. Told her you’d be back today.” Sister Martha crossed her arms over her chest.
“That’s fine, then. I’m glad you checked the church when you were able. That’s doing God’s work, Sister.”
“Asked her for a donation, but she ran off, like I said.”
“Hmm. Well, good try. So we’ll get through this prayer-list meeting and then start working on the revival, all right? Do we have a committee going?”
“Got a start on that . . .”
And the woman hadn’t come up again. He put it out of his mind.
Sunlight poured as if from a pitcher from the small high window onto Gary’s desk now as the morning advanced. It was going to be a good day. He had the praise service to get ready for that night, the Saturday healing service, Sunday’s three services, no matter how small the attendance at each, and recruitment plans to work on. The revival. He wondered if his aunt CarolSue would maybe help him talk his mother into letting him use her field for the tent. She’d been pretty mad about it that one time and said never again, but he’d never had Aunt CarolSue maybe in his corner before. Something to think about.
* * *
It was two days later, Friday, when he was in his office, revising the Sunday message about the Biblical requirement of tithing, on his laptop. Apparently, some members didn’t yet understand the point. He had the door to his office closed as the Clean for Jesus Committee had been in earlier, sweeping and dusting, and those ladies had a pesky tendency to gossip while they worked. Occasionally Gary picked up some useful information by eavesdropping, but today he had too much work to do and couldn’t afford the time. They’d been gone for at least a half hour since Sister Amanda had knocked and stuck her head in to wish him good day and tell him they were finished and leaving.
He’d just been thinking that maybe he’d take a break and go get himself some lunch when he thought he heard someone come into the church. He stayed where he was, hoping not to be waylaid by idle chatter, wished the van weren’t parked right outside advertising his presence. Unless, of course, he reminded himself, a member was in need of ministry.
Gary was in luck. Or Jesus was smiling on him, he preferred to think, approving of the Sunday message about tithing he’d been polishing as his own shiny offering. He waited in his office but no knock came on his door and a few minutes later he heard the church door close again. Blessed silence. Shortly after, off in the distance, he thought he heard a very old-sounding car—or one in need of a new muffler, perhaps—but it could have been some farm equipment. It didn’t matter. His stomach rumbled, not that he’d forgotten the length of time since breakfast. Sure of an easy getaway to a hefty sandwich, he pushed his chair back and left the office.
He made it four steps beyond the office door.
A baby carrier blocked his path. And, oh Jesus, that’s a real baby in it?
Panic washed over Gary like the Red Sea. “Hey,” he shouted. “Hey, who’s here?” He ran around the building, looked behind the wooden altar, prayer rail, and tub for immersion baptisms that members had helped either create or rescue from various secondhand sources. It was quite pointless, he knew, but what alternative did he have? Other than in the tub itself, and how would that work since the top was open, there wasn’t anywhere to hide in the barn. It wasn’t like folding chairs would keep a secret, yet still he got down on hands and knees to look, desperate. Kept shouting, too.
He hadn’t even looked, not really, in the baby carrier. Now, from across the barn, he saw movement. A hand waving up was all, then more movement. It was definitely alive. He hadn’t been mistaken.
Oh Jesus, oh God.
He walked toward it slowly, as if it were a snake. What was he supposed to do? He figured he’d get back into his office and call one of the Sisters who had a young child. He remembered nothing from when Cody was a baby. Nicole had taken care of him, with help from Gary’s mother. Now, though, this was a church problem, obviously. Maybe a member in distress needed babysitting. Gary tried to puzzle it out as he walked, slow and now quiet as cotton through the barn, calming himself.
He approached the back of the carrier, which faced the office, heart pounding as if it might detonate. A small sound, something between a coo and a whimper, came out of it and he startled, less because of that than because a small object hit the floor with a soft ping right after that. He took a step backward, and then when nothing more happened, he leaned over to see what it was. A pacifier, shaped like a nipple. Oh. He wondered if he should give it back to the baby, but then thought it might be dirty. Did it have to be sterilized or something? He couldn’t remember.
The baby started to fuss. Not really cry hard, just fuss. Gary walked around to look at it. Oh. There was a bottle tucked next to it—her, he guessed, since the thing she had on was pink, and that meant a girl, didn’t it? And two—no three—disposable diapers on the other side. He was afraid to move anything, but he was going to have to, he guessed. She was strapped in at least, so if he didn’t drop the carrier, it would be okay. He picked up the carrier, which was gray and looked worn, maybe a little dirty, and then he saw the papers beneath it. Gently, he set the carrier back down and retrieved a folded piece of paper with his name, misspelled in neat childish handwriting: Rev Garry. With it, another folded paper, which he opened first.
Certificate of Live Birth. Female. Mother’s name. Rosalina Gonzales. Wait, not the same person, it was a common name probably, she said her name was Lopez.
Father’s name. Garry Hawkins. What?
What?
No. No. No.
Gary stood stunned. He studied the birth certificate, willing it to be false, fingered the raised state seal on it. If Jesus had appeared before him in the flesh with a deck of playing cards and challenged him to a game of strip poker with six women, he would not have been more shocked or immobilized. The baby stirred and fussed mildly, squirming. A moment later, she passed gas or worse.
Gary opened the note with his name on it, already limp from the sweat of his hands. Rev Garry. Gracia is yours, also a U.S. citizen, like you. I give you her proof. I can’t take care of her. She must stay with you, a safe American, and get a good education. Please teach her what’s right. Tell her that her mama loved her so much. Thank you.
Then the crying began. By both of them. Gary remembered the pacifier, which he’d put in his shirt pocket, wiped it on his shirt front, praying the Clean for Jesus Committee hadn’t used anything poisonous on the floor, and gingerly stuck it in the vicinity of the baby’s lips. She rooted for it and then grabbed it hungrily, her pink bud of a mouth closing around it. He stood, staring down, as the infant quieted, sucking fiercely. Closed his wet eyes for a long moment. “Help me, Jesus. Take this cup from me.” Opened his eyes. The baby was still there.
He had absolutely no idea what to do.