*
The demonstration went well. A number of people, heading into the parking lot with the obvious intention of renting a video from Bear State Videoramics, saw the demonstrators, their friends and neighbors, circling in front of the store with their signs, sometimes chanting slogans and sometimes singing hymns. The customers would usually hesitate, then shy away.
There were a few exceptions. A couple young men, obviously drunk, made an elaborate show of renting some pornographic videos, which they waved at Frankland as they got back in their Jeep and sped away. A few other adults came into the store to return videos, and a couple stayed to make other rentals, conspicuously from the family section.
But for a Friday night, Frankland figured, Magnusson’s business was lousy. The protest was really hitting him in the pocketbook.
“It’s working,” he told Dr. Calhoun as they fell into step.
“For one night, anyway,” Calhoun said. Calhoun grinned up at him and wiped sweat from his bald head. “By the way, Reverend,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your radio address the other day. What was that term you used? ‘Rapture wimp’ was it?”
Frankland felt heat rise to his face. “I do apologize, Dr. Calhoun,” he said. “The Spirit was in me pretty strong at the time— but I should have chosen more appropriate language.”
Calhon gave a chuckle. “Well, I’d like to think I’m not a wimp. I just happen to believe that there isn’t necessarily an interval between the Rapture and the Second Coming.”
“I believe I explained my reasoning in that radio speech,” Frankland said.
“But what about the Bema Judgment?” Calhoun said.
And Calhoun and Frankland then had a pleasant time, for the next hour or so, arguing back and forth about the Tribulation, the Bema Judgment as opposed to the Krino Judgment, the Twenty-Four Elders, Christ’s Bride in Heaven, the Judgment of the Gentiles, the role of the 144,000 Jews, and other significant matters pertaining to the end of the world.
They were interrupted by the publisher of the local weekly paper, who interviewed the leaders of the protest as well as Magnusson. Frankland had a feeling the coverage would be favorable, as the publisher was a member of Dr. Calhoun’s congregation.
The only real sour note came later, when the pastor of the Lutheran Church of the Good Shepherd, Pete Swenson, turned up to rent a video. He crossed the parking lot slowly, a thoughtful frown on his beefy Swedish face, hands in the pockets of his chinos. He nodded at Frankland and Garb, walked into Bear State Videoramics, and could be seen having a long conversation with Magnusson.
Hilkiah approached, clenching his tattooed fists.
“G—” he began, then corrected himself. “Dad-blame that squarehead, anyway.”
“I can’t figure him out,” said Calhoun.
A good third of the inhabitants of the community were the descendants of a colony of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants that had been planted here in the 1880s. A great many of the members of the commercial class, such as it was, bore Swedish names. The lofty red brick Church of the Good Shepherd, sitting next to the immaculate green lawn of the immigrant cemetery, was the largest of the area’s churches, and the oldest.
And the Swedes’ attitude was different. It just was, and Frankland didn’t understand it. Why Swenson wouldn’t stand with the community against pornography, why he didn’t participate in the Love Offering Picnic, why he didn’t urge his flock to join the Christian Gun Club with their children— why wouldn’t a minister do these obvious things, which were so clearly a part of his duty?
Swenson left the video store and nodded at Frankland again as he shambled toward his car. There was a tape of Spartacus in his hand.
“Well,” Frankland said finally, as Swenson drove away. “Those Lutherans, they’re pretty close to being Catholics, you know.”
Calhoun and Hilkiah looked at him and nodded.
That probably explained it.
*
The stock market was going mad, the President thought, and all because Sam made a weird face on television. Some days he just loved his job.
“We need a full-court press on this issue,” he said. “Point out that the market is bearing out what the Administration has said all along.”
“Yes, sir,” said Stan Burdett. His spectacles glittered. He knew just how to handle something like this.
“Maybe the First Lady can say something in her speech in Atlanta tonight.”
“I’ll talk to Mrs. Grayson about it.”
There was the sound of a door opening. “Mr. President.” The President’s secretary entered the Oval Office— without knocking, the first time ever. “Something’s just happened.” There was a stricken look on her face.
The President saw the look and felt his heart turn over. For a moment he pictured the First Lady in a plane crash, his children in the sights of assassins ...
“What is it?” he said, and tried to control the tremor that had risen in his voice.
“I called Judge Chivington’s office to make your golf appointment for next week.” His secretary’s lip trembled. “The judge is dead, sir. He passed away in his office about ten minutes ago. The paramedics are still there, but they say they can’t revive him.”
The President began to breathe again. Relief warred with sorrow in his mind, and then with shame at his being glad it was the judge and not his family.
“I thought the judge would bury us all,” he said, and then his voice tripped over the sudden ache in his throat.
Judge Chivington gone. The judge had been such a constant in the President’s life, from the very beginning of his career to the present, that he had truly never pictured his life without the man.
He looked at his secretary, then at Stan. “Could you leave me alone for a while, please?” he managed.
“Yes, sir,” Stan said.
The others left in silence. The President turned his chair to the tall windows behind him, to the roses ranked in the garden beyond.
It was like losing a father, he thought.
Judge Chivington had been one of the greats. Legislator, jurist, advisor to the powerful. One of the few things that the President could absolutely rely on throughout his life.
The President would see that the judge was properly recognized as he began his trip to the beyond. A funeral in the National Cathedral, a procession of Washington’s great orators from the pulpit, a choir that spat holy fire.
The judge’s wife had died about five years ago. The President would have to call the judge’s daughter, who was a high-powered lawyer on the West Coast.
Do this right, he thought. If you ever do anything right in your life, do this.
He turned and reached for the phone.