BENEATH A BROAD WHITE TENT, THE PENDLETONS WELCOMED visitors with gentle smiles and open arms. They all wore black suits, with purple piping along the lapels and sleeves. The men had single lines of piping that ran down the outsides of their trouser legs. The women wore skirts hemmed four inches below the knee. Charity modified her uniform: she narrowed the waist, added lace to the rims of her shoes, and pleated the skirt so that she could manipulate the organ pedals.
Tom sent Margaret to investigate. “Perhaps then you will be able to reassure me that these people are sensible” he said. Margaret was glad to get out of the house; she couldn't bear to be alone with Iris these days.
Charity introduced Margaret to a few friends, then hurried over to the orchestra. A small tin pipe organ stood at the center of the stage.
“First time?” inquired one of the young women.
“Yes,” admitted Margaret.
“You're lucky, then,” said a man. “Isaiah Pound, our founder, is with us tonight. He's come from England. He's brilliant. You'll see!”
“Quite brilliant,” echoed another man.
“There are Pendletons on every continent now,” explained the young woman.
These weren't her sort of people, Margaret decided. They were pleasant enough, but she didn't like the uniforms and wondered why such a church group lacked a cross or a single picture of Jesus. In fact, the one picture visible was a poster of Isaiah Pound—a narrow, humorless face with a probing stare.
Although spare seats were everywhere, Margaret was encouraged to fill one at the front. Suddenly, the lights went down, and the organ began Bach's Toccata in D Minor. A man appeared onstage, his face illuminated by the podium light. His voice was tinny, but had a strangely compelling monotony.
If part of you is missing a loved one, a family member, a wife, a husband, then you are my friend.
If you see human folly on the front page of the newspaper and wonder what is to become of mankind, you are my friend.
If you wonder whether the great machine we call “progress” is going full throttle without a driver, you are my friend!
Attired in a black suit and a purple clerical collar, Isaiah Pound addressed his small audience as if it were a multitude. Margaret felt herself shaken by his appeal. She thought of Peter Carnahan and felt sorry for herself. She hadlost someone, someone very dear.
We have one another, my friends. We are not alone. We don't wander through the Valley of the Shadow of Death unassisted. God is with us. He has a plan for us all!
Isaiah Pound's thin black hair was shaven in a fringe that left an inch of bare scalp around his ears.
Voices cried out in agreement, and Pound extended his hands in appeal.
Welcome, friends. Tonight we share a common roof, we share the love of our fellow man, the respect for the vast unknown, and a deep, abiding awe of our Almighty Creator.
Perhaps He has spoken to you. He speaks to me, friends, all the time. And He asks, “What has become of man?” He asks, “Why do the weak suffer, the innocent perish, and the sinful prevail?” And He says, “Something must be done!”
The preacher leaned forward on his lectern and smiled.
Here is the good news, friends. He has told me that the end is near. He wants you, friend. The prophets are returning. A beautiful day is at hand. A day of cleansing—an end to smoky skies, filthy streets, the sinful, the callous, and the apostates who take His name in vain. We are invited into His shining kingdom, my friends, the undiscovered country, the kingdom of heaven. Join me, friends!
His hands reached out, and scores answered his appeal from the seats below. Suddenly Charity's ominous music filled the hall, accompanied by a chorus of heavenly voices—like angels preparing for the final conflict. Heaven was ripping apart, the trumpets sounded, and the end was a glorious, horrific, rapturous cacophony. Isaiah Pound turned to watch Charity play clearly impressed by her performance.
Finally, he delivered his appeal:
Join us! Prepare for the end, and rejoice!
THE SHEER EMOTIONAL FORCE of the event had everyone in tears. They held hands, swayed, and wept together. Margaret, however, felt marooned by her own skepticism. Her sister had obviously found something special here, among these people, but Margaret was a solitary holdout, unmoved, isolated, consumed only by envy. When, she wondered, would she experience such joy?
“I'm so glad you came with me, Margaret,” Charity began, “I wanted someone else to see—”
“It's certainly exciting,” her sister interrupted.
“Oh, yes”—Charity smiled—“and ever since Mama died I've felt this empty spot inside me. I never understood quite what it was until I heard Isaiah Pound speak tonight. Margaret? I'm joining them. They like my playing; they want me to tour with them. I'm going to do it. There's nothing for me here,” said Charity. “What do you think Father will say?” “I can't imagine,” Margaret gasped.
LATER, HOWEVER, MARGARET TOLD her father about Charity's intentions and described the Pendletons to him. “They're even more emphatic than Catholics,” she said. “The hell and damnation theme seems particularly important to them.”
“Should I let her join them?” he asked.
Margaret was incensed by the very idea. “Absolutely not!”
But Charity pleaded her cause to her father with wrenching urgency. “They understand me,” she said. “They appreciate my music. I'm accepted by them. I fit in.” She added that she would never find such satisfaction in Gantrytown. “This is a chance for me to help save humanity, Papa!”
“What if you fail?” Tom replied. “What if humanity is a hopeless cause?”
“They need me,” she explained, “and I need them.”
“Are these people reputable? Trustworthy?”
“They read the Bible every day.”
Tom was tempted to challenge her reply, but he knew doing so would only fire his daughter's obstinacy. He hadn't been able to talk her out of playing at her mother's wake, and he doubted she could be talked out of performing for an appreciative audience. He wished for Lizzy's wisdom on the matter. She would have known what to do. Finally, he made a modest request: “Will you write? Promise me that?”
“Of course, Papa!”
Charity would have promised him anything to be allowed to pack her bags. So, as she packed, he stood, hands in pockets, asking questions, trying to reconcile himself, for his own peace of mind, to his daughter's departure.
“They believe the end of world is coming on November eleventh, nineteen eighteen,” Charity explained. “Armageddon. It is vital to prepare for that day, to save as many souls as possible, so that they may gain entry to heaven.”
“And you believe this?”
“Of course!”
Tom frowned. “Charity, I had an old friend who used to predict Doomsday. It never came, but he would advance the date along the calendar convinced that it was fast approaching. I know that I cannot—and I will not—prevent you from doing what you believe is right, but I wonder about the wisdom of this campaign. My friend's name was Pendleton. Perhaps it is a coincidence, or perhaps not…”
“Father, I hardly think every old figure from your childhood has relevance to my life.”
Tom gave his youngest daughter a helpless smile. “I hope that is not the case too. How can I stop you? You are nineteen, a grown woman.”
Charity hugged him, not realizing that his remark was meant as an appeal rather than a concession.
THE NEXT MORNING TOM drove Charity to the fairgrounds. There was frost on the grass. The trucks and caravans were lined up ready to leave.
Before Charity hopped into the Pendletons' battered bus, Tom gave his daughter a copy of Masterson's Simple Cures to Common Ailments.
“What's this?” she asked.
“Oh, just a little common sense,” he replied. “I put a pound note in every chapter,” he explained, hoping this would be an incentive for her to leaf through it at least once.
She hugged him and boarded the bus, and Tom studied his footprints in the frosty grass. He expected to feel lighter of step with Charity on her way in the world, but this was not so. His burden felt heavier.
Audrey had explained this sensation in one of her recent letters about Jonah.
The daily vigilance I felt for my son was not relieved when he became old enough to avoid skinning his knees or having his pennies stolen by bullies. Once he could earn his own living, my day-to-day concern for his welfare advanced to concern for the world at large. I became invested in the larger forces that would govern his life—the honesty of people, the virtue of authority, the generosity of society towards the weak and unfortunate, and peace between nations.
You see, Tom, once we assume the parental burden, we become helplessly invested in the justice of the playground and, by extension, the justice of the world at large.