“We ought to take our camera in with him someday,” said Donald, “and get some film of it. That’s bottom-line Christianity.”
“I like that!” my father said. “Bottom-line Christianity … Well, so many times we aren’t of any practical assistance. Bud taught me that. Bud said, Dad, don’t just give them prayers. Give them something up front: money for a pack of cigarettes, a dime to make a phone call. People remember that more than they remember prayers. Bud’s right.”
“Particularly now that he’s gone,” said Donald.
“Gone but not forgotten,” I said.
“Oh, not forgotten!” said Donald.
“Are you two ganging up on me?” my father said.
He came over and put his arm around me. “I love you, Jesse. Good luck today.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you, too, sir.”
“Change the tie.”
On my way to the train station with Donald, he said, “You know, your dad is convinced Bud’s coming home soon. He’s going to pitch a sermon to him, and we’re going to have a charm made up based on it. … Do you really think Bud watches him Sunday mornings, Jesse?”
“How do I know what Bud does anymore?” I said.
“Exactly,” Donald said. “Exactly. But your dad’s set on pitching a sermon to him. The Happiest Man thing, remember it?”
“Yeah, I remember it.”
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Everything.”
I could remember my dad years ago, under the tent, coat off, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up. First he’d play the part of the king. “Go forth and bring me the shirt of the happiest man in my kingdom!”
It was an old favorite of Dad’s—a story about a king whose oracle told him the only way he could be happy was to wear the shirt of the happiest man in his kingdom. My father stretched the story out with all sorts of sidelines, until the ending when the oracle, crouched in this fawning attitude, announces with this little whiny voice, “My king and master, we have finally located the happiest man in your kingdom.”
Then Dad straightened up, brought his fist forward, and slapped it into his palm, shouting, “Bring me his shirt!”
The oracle, wringing his hands, mincing around, finally whimpering, “My king and master, the happiest man in your kingdom has no shirt.”
When we were little, Bud and I loved that story. So did everyone under the tent, in the old days.
Donald said, “We’re going to have a charm made of a little bare-chested man.” He heaved a sigh.
I didn’t say anything, just took the left turn toward the train station. My secret self was laughing it up in my head.
“If you ask me, it’s a foolish idea,” Donald said.
“He hasn’t told that one in a long time,” I said.
“Right now isn’t the time to take it out of mothballs, either,” Donald said. “We’re telling people you can do anything—it’s up to you! We’re not saying be glad you don’t have a pot to pee in!”
“No, we’re certainly not saying that,” I said, pulling up next to a taxi stand.
“A humble backwoods ministry is one thing,” Donald said. “A television ministry is another.”
“I think the television ministry is what got to Bud,” I said. “I think all the fund raising—”
Donald didn’t let me finish. “Without all the fund raising, your dad would still be wasting his God-given talents talking to two hundred ne’er-do-well bumpkins who couldn’t collectively drop three hundred dollars into a cardboard box! What the hell did Bud ever know about business? He likes to go skinny-dipping over to his girl friend’s fifty-foot swimming pool, but he doesn’t like to think how her old man got so he could afford that pool!” The train whistle blasted and Donald waited, then in a softer voice said, “What about God saying to Solomon, I will give thee riches, and wealth? He gave Job twice as much as Job ever had before all his afflictions!”
One thing about Donald: You could always count on the fact he did his research.
He was reaching behind the front seat of our Seville for his Gucci briefcase with the gold ACE insignia embossed across the leather.
“What about Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David, and Joseph of Arimathea?” said Donald.
“I’m not as well informed as you are, Donald.”
“Well get informed, Jesse. It wouldn’t hurt any. A television ministry is a family business, boy.”
“Your train’s pulling in,” I said.
“I see it,” he said, and then he finished his point. “God made them all rich, as a reward! That was God’s will, that they become rich men! So what is all this no-shirt bullshit!”
Sometimes I forgot what a real celebrity my father was, and how many people watched It’s Up to You. There were security guards at the end of our driveway, and an elaborate CheckCheek Security system built into our house, but day to day Dr. Guy Pegler was just my old man. … ACE’s central offices were in Riverhead, and a staff in Massachusetts handled all our mail, and sent out all our merchandise. … Our small Seaville staff handled the hot line, the outreach program, and public relations, from the office in The Summer House.
My father liked to say he kept a low profile in Seaville, and we rarely went to public places there. About the only place he went when he did manage to get some free time was The Hadefield Club. No one there made a fuss over him. The place was filled with celebrities. … At Seaville High, I was just another kid.
But the moment I arrived at Oceanside Hospital, I was reminded that I wasn’t just another kid. I was his kid, and sick people came down the halls in their bathrobes and slippers to get a look at me. Some of them even wanted my autograph, and said they remembered seeing me on TV.
I even found myself sounding like my father, although I guess I didn’t have his spiel down as pat as I thought I did.
Because when
