The crowd parted and let the car through. The vehicle crept through the makeshift camp before the courthouse and ran over smoldering campfires and edges of tents. People pressed their faces against the windows. Coot could see children trying to get a better look at who was inside.

When the car came to a stop, there were people on all sides of the vehicle, standing in herds like cattle.

J. Wilbur straightened his collar and smoothed his hair. He leaned toward Coot. “I owe a lot to your daddy, son.” He patted Coot’s leg. “In fact, I owe your daddy my eternal salvation, you could say.”

The dignified man bowed his head briefly.

Coot could see he was praying. Coot bowed his head too.

Then J. Wilbur Chaplain kicked open the door and stepped out. The man crawled onto the top of his car like a man half his age. His long legs were limber and his movements were quick. Coot was surprised to see the man move so fast. His shoes made banging noises on the automobile roof.

He shouted. He clapped his hands. He stomped his feet until he nearly bent the dome of the car. He removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his sweat-stained shirt. He unbuttoned his collar. Coot could see Marigold’s face in the open window of the courthouse above. And he could still feel her kiss.

J. Wilbur Chaplain spoke of God and miracles and power and angels and healers. The veins in his head showed. Coot was unable to take his eyes from the man. And when J. Wilbur called sinners to repent, he waved his hand over the crowd and people nearly lost their minds. Elderly women fell backward; men started shouting and hollering. One woman claimed she’d been healed of gallstones. Another woman told news reporters that a goiter had gone down in size by three inches.

J. Wilbur Chaplain preached for ninety-one minutes. Fully clothed.

One newspaper headline read “Revival Hits Alabama.”

Ninety-Four
Through the Static

Ruth read the Friday morning edition of the newspaper in earnest. She was not normally a newspaper reader, but the image on the front page had caught her attention. It looked like hundreds of people, hands raised, surrounding a man standing atop a car.

She leaned against the counter of the kitchenette and waited for the dollop of grease to get soft in the skillet. She adjusted the knob on the stove so the flame swelled.

She felt like a grown-up, cooking and making breakfast. She felt even older when she gave the newspaper one swift shake to straighten it. She did it again, just because it made her feel so mature.

She studied the photo with great care.

She adjusted the hot skillet over the flame, then read about the most famous evangelist in America—a man she’d only ever known by name.