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“It will be ready to type in half an hour,” he growled, then, mistaking her silence for sullenness, he turned. Bill’s daughter was as exquisite as he was ugly. At twenty she had the kind of beauty that sucked the breath away like a sudden punch to the diaphragm. Long curly dark hair cascaded down to her waist. She had deep brown eyes that shone violet in a certain light. Their slanted length and heavy lids gave her an Oriental appearance and heightened the impression of remoteness. She had an angular face softened by youth, but the sharpness of her cheekbones emphasized her fragility. On closer inspection a buried intelligence spoke of a wisdom far beyond her years—which was just as well, for Miranda, the preacher’s daughter, could not speak. She was mute, and had been since birth.
If Preacher Williams had one defining secret in his life it was this: the existence of a daughter who, to his great chagrin, resembled her mother so exactly that every time he looked at her he experienced the same intense mortification he’d felt on the one occasion he’d faltered morally.
It had been his first job, in a poor neighborhood in South Chicago. In those days he had been a shy, awkward youth. His father, whom he adored, had lost his job as a stockkeeper to an immigrant and drank himself to death by the time Bill was thirteen. The boy, whose sensitivity had already made him a target for the local kids, sought refuge in books, particularly the Bible. He soon discovered that if he voiced the racist fears of his community and spiced them up with some religious polemic, he gained a captive audience. It was heady stuff for an adolescent who’d had little love and no respect up to that point in his life. It was only a matter of time before he became a lay preacher and then joined the Aryan Fellowship.
Late one night he came across a young African woman who had been hired to clean the church. As she bent over the pews, polishing the brass rails, the preacher couldn’t help noticing how shapely her behind was, how high her bosom. The poor girl had barely realized that he was standing behind her when suddenly his pent-up anger and frustration exploded. He grabbed her, covered her mouth with his hand, and raped her. Afterward, too terrified to speak, she fled, leaving the preacher drenched in shame, his trousers still around his ankles, curled up on the stone floor like an aberrant child.
Months passed and he
’d almost forgotten the incident, until one night a pale brown infant appeared at the foot of the altar, wrapped in an African shawl. As he looked into the baby’s face, she reached up to him, revealing an identical birthmark to his own in exactly the same place on the top of her tiny hand. There could be no doubt. Terrified that his secret might be revealed, the preacher hid the baby in his car. As he drove around aimlessly he thought about all the places he could abandon the baby, but the fear of that telltale birthmark exposing him as a rapist as well as a hypocrite forced a momentous decision. He took her home that night and placed her in a cardboard box for a crib, vowing to keep her hidden from the world.
The baby never cried, and as the child grew older he realized, with a certain amount of relief, that she was mute. Finally he named her Miranda, after Shakespeare’s heroine, deluding himself with the notion of himself as her Prospero.
He looked at his daughter now, sensing a change in her. She was staring at the window that faced the main street. He followed her gaze and, to his intense irritation, saw the rainmaker walking on the other side of the street.
Watching his grace Miranda thought of sunlight catching the top of the ocean’s waves, which was puzzling as she had never seen the sea. So that’s him, the girl thought, the one I felt approaching over the desert, her heart racing with recognition.
The preacher pulled the blinds down with a snap. “If I catch you looking at that abomination again, I’ll blacken the windows in your bedroom for a week,” he threatened, grabbing her wrists. She nodded silently and he let go.
If he had been more observant, he would have noticed that, as she walked out of the room, her hips undulated with the exact same rhythm as the rainmaker’s distinctive gait.
The church was packed. Sweat poured off the overdressed parishioners, running in rivulets under the women’s hats, staining the backs of the men’s crisp white shirts, collecting in beads across the children’s faces. Condensation started to drop from the ceiling. No one noticed; they were all leaning forward in concentration, gathered there for one reason: to hear the preacher pass judgment. Word of the rainmaker and his terms had spread to the more isolated farming communities, which, in better days, used Sandridge as a market for their cattle and wheat. There were faces the preacher hadn’t seen for years, except at funerals and weddings. Even the local hermit, the most famous misanthrope in the state of Oklahoma, had turned up. The church had never been so crowded.
At the back, a row of bachelor farmers sat on the low pews. As they knelt heavily to pray, dust from the burned fields puffed up in to miniature clouds above them like momentary halos. The wooden kneeling boards groaned with their weight. The preacher lifted his arms into the silence that resonated with collective despair as the entire congregation, from infants to great-grandmothers, prayed for rain.
Hidden in an archway behind the altar, concealed by a curtain, sat Miranda, her face pressed against the wooden divide.
Look at him, how can he call himself a holy man? she thought, all the fear and hatred of her father rising up. If I could, I would shout these walls down. Oh, rainmaker…do you hear me? Do you feel me pressed against you? She shut her eyes and wished him closer. Between her knees lay her manacled wrists.
The preacher blessed the congregation, coughed, then began his sermon.
“And the weak should be wary of the charlatan, for he shall lead them into a corruption of the spirit, into a falsehood of faith.” He glared at the gathering, his eyebrows bristling. “And there is a charlatan among us, an unclean man, a man not of our race, a man who is the very personification of evil for he seeketh to corrupt this town!”
A farmer in the front row clutched at his heart, old Shirley Kelly lost her false teeth but caught them with her handkerchief, while Hank Thurson, the diner owner, found his thoughts turning to his accountant.
“I speak of the so-called rainmaker!” the preacher thundered, his voice echoing through the church. “A man devoid of spirituality or humanity, a man who has demanded the most disgusting of payments—human flesh—the bodies of the respectable wives and daughters of this fair town!”
There wasn’t a woman in the building who did not feel a delicious spark of anticipation run down her thighs at the preacher’s indignant words.
Behind the curtain Miranda’s eyes flew open. The rainmaker needed a woman for his magic. If it could not be her, then let him feel her as he made love to other women. Despite the scratches across her breasts and the marks of a whip on her back, Miranda took stock of her own strength. There was no doubt in her mind: Jacob was there for her alone.
“Preacher! You are wrong!”
The whole congregation swung around. Standing at the back of the church was the rainmaker. Dressed immaculately in a white Armani suit, with mirrored shades that reflected the worshippers, he looked like a modern-day saint.
“What kind of holy man are you?” he challenged. “A man whose spirit has atrophied into a wizened semblance of humanity! How can you claim that it is I who is lacking in spirituality? I am a miraclemaker! All I need is belief…and a woman who is willing to moisten the very air with her sighs.”
Immediately thirty women consciously locked their knees to prevent themselves from leaping to their feet to sacrifice themselves for the greater cause.
“Carnality is not spirituality!” spat the preacher in response. “You, sir, are the devil incarnate, sent to destroy these people! Leave this town! There is no place in Sandridge for foreign con men!” he screamed, transported by the conviction that he was administering divine justice.
The church erupted into chaos. Four of the Kaufmann brothers advanced upon the rainmaker, who remained strangely unperturbed. He had become distracted by the image shining at him from behind the altar. Invisible to others but crystal clear to him, it was a vision of Miranda. In his forty-six years he had never seen a woman so complete in her beauty and suffering. Incredibly humbled, he dropped to his knees.
“You see how he is struck down! Struck down by the Holy Spirit itself. And the Almighty shall smite down the disbeliever!” Bill Williams screamed. The choir of the Aryan Fellowship of Jesus burst into a country and western rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Still on his knees the rainmaker looked up. Some assumed he was praying, but Jacob was studying the sun, the heat of which he could feel through the roof. At his silent command the temperature shot up five degrees and a crack appeared in the roof, through which sunlight streamed down illuminating him like a saint. Several women screamed. The preacher gestured and two of the hefty Kaufmann brothers hauled the rainmaker to his feet. As they dragged him out the door, several pious female parishioners couldn’t help noticing how long and shapely his legs were as they trailed behind him, feet bumping across the stone floor.
Outside, Jacob lay in the dirt. He had never been happier, this was what he’d been waiting for: a woman who shared the same powers as he, a soul mate who was not bound by time or physicality, but who traversed the laws of nature. He had to rescue her; they belonged together.
