Chapter 15
Sharon had adjusted to living in the Ozarks without a hiccup, much to nearly everyone’s amazement. True, she was from Dallas, Texas, so jumping the cultural bar hardly required a big leap forward, but Sharon had lived in Europe, gotten smart in several schools, and now associated almost entirely with a few local Whiz Bangs and Ultra Smarty Pantses who also had chosen to settle in the Berryville area. John was a bit of a ringer among this group.
Why she associated with him was a mystery to her friends, and to her too, when it came right down to it. She accepted his deafness and tolerated his toad-like appearance with a fair degree of grace, but lately, she was discovering that his tendency to associate with the dead a bit unnerving. And then there was this whole 'Saint in the Garden' business. Because of her fundamentalist roots, Sharon knew that some people felt personally stalked by the Devil, or needed to break out in fevers of Spirit filled Sway-dough Esperanto or Urdu from time to time. she could roll with it, and them too.
But by and large these were decent Protestants who lived in new Doublewides and were nearly current on their SUV payments. None of them, in so far as she knew, believed that you could step right up and shake an old dead Catholic’s hand, and have him shake it back. Worse, John and what’s his name—oh yes, Fiacre—carried on lengthy conversations in Latin, a language of little use in Berryville, Arkansas, or in Dallas, Texas, for that matter.
When John had suddenly and enthusiastically agreed to help her fandango Little Jake Cooker, she immediately had second thoughts. When he recounted the whys of his new-found enthusiasm, ‘a once in a life-time opportunity to save Normal Christianity’ she became even more dubious. While Sharon was fairly sure that John was not completely Woo Wee in the Mind— nor had she ever seen him ingest a psychotropic pharmaceutical—she now lacked the requisite excitement about the upcoming battle that one might expect from a ‘Warrior Queen.’
And while John had wrestled with defining ‘fandango’ and all that it involved, she was equally perplexed by the meaning of ‘Normal Christianity.’ When Doc Holiday was dying, one of the last things he said was, “Wyatt, there ain’t no normal life. There’s just life.” Couldn’t you say the same thing about Christianity? Why should the definition of ‘normal’ Christianity be left to a barely respectable Yankee encapsulated in the Ozarks and his imaginary Time Traveling Friend?
Needless to say, John had complicated Dr. Sloan’s adjustment to life in Berryville. She had supposed, early after her arrival, that life going forward would be comprised of birding, catching the odd episode of Glee, entertaining her many nieces and nephews, piloting the virtually endless inventory of electronic gadgets that filled her tiny home, and executing the odd prank or two, such as punking Jake Cooker and similar rascals. But now, she was being cast as a Warrior Queen responsible for saving Normal Christianity. All because of John, dagnabbit.
And there he was, pulling into the parking area just east of her little house. She watched him through her kitchen window as he lumbered out of the white van and down the stone path and past a shock of bamboo to the front of her porch. Naturally, he was talking to someone who, naturally, was invisible to her. By the look on his face, John appeared to be losing an argument.
“You’re talking to yourself,” Dr. Sloan said, matter-of-factly. “It is an unsettling habit, John.”
“But harmless. Are you ready to go?”
She sighed. “It is nearly noon. We’ll have missed at least half the show.”
“Mrs. Heartbreak took longer than expected to earn our winter’s gravy. And,’ he said with a pause, “requesting her van required a nuanced approach.”
“In other words, you lied to her.”
“Certainly not. I explained that we were on a Mission from God and she handed over the keys. Quite expeditiously.”
“Did she snort?”
“There was a bit of eye-rolling, but nothing untoward.”
“I don’t know why she puts up with you. The woman is a Saint.”
John felt offended. “I’ve been an adequate provider,” he retorted. “Faithful as a rock. Respectful in my requests. Clean habits. A prince, I would say!”
“Alright, Charming,” she replied. “Let’s get going. We’ve got some details to work out, including rank ordering of priorities.
“Priority one,” she said, firmly, “Is my $6,000,000. Priority eight-six is an explanation of what Normal Christianity is. As far as I can see—and I can see from here to China—there isn’t any such thing.”
“Odd that you should mention China,” John said enthusiastically as they walked toward the van. “Watchman Nee, one of the great men of the 20th Century, wrote a book entitled ‘The Normal Christian Life.’ He was Chinese.”
“He actually defined ‘normal’ in the context of Christianity? Unbelievable!”
“Believe it, or don’t. But yes, he defined normal Christianity. Interestingly,” John said boringly, “The word ‘normal’ in Chinese has nearly the exact meaning in English. How about that!”
“Fascinating,” Dr. Sloan said, evenly. “What’s the Chinese word for ‘irony’?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“Never mind.”
John shrugged, then got in the van and started it up. Dr. Sloan climbed in and fastened her seatbelt. “Try not to drive anyone nuts, okay? Pay attention to the speed limit and approximate it.”
“Driving slow is my only hobby,” John said, defensively. “You, of all people, should permit eccentric habits.”
“Just pep it up. We haven’t got all day. And, against my better judgment, what did this Nee guy have to say.”
“According to Nee,” John said, “Normal Christianity is one church in one town. He said, “When the Lord called me to serve Him, the primary objective was not to hold revival meetings, or help people hear more scriptural doctrines, or for me to become a great evangelist. The Lord said simply that He wants a single church where everyone loves one another, and loves Him.”
“Ah ha! I knew it! You’re part of a Vast Wing Nut Catholic Conspiracy! You want to reinvent the Holy Roman Empire!”
John rolled his eyes. “Watchman Nee was raised as a Methodist. Robert Govett, an Anglican, had the most profound effect on Nee’s teachings. T. Austen Sparks, another teacher, was a Baptist. There wasn’t a Catholic in the bunch.”
The more John got excited about Nee’s teachings the faster he talked about them, and the slower he drove. Sharon was soon aware of cars and trucks piling up behind them. When they turned off on Springfield Road to head North toward Wall Eye there were at least thirty vehicles behind them. Sharon decided then that it was a really bad idea to have John drive their getaway car. What would happen if they run into trouble? What would happen if Little Jake Cooker resisted Fandangoing?
“You can stop talking now, John,” she said. “You’ve explained it enough. I would like you to concentrate on a mile per hour rate somewhere between forty and fifty. Think you can manage that?”
“Ah, you want speed? You’re getting pumped up! That’s the Warrior Queen spirit I’ve been waiting for!”
“Uh huh.”
