of his spit-shined wingtips.
“Yes, well, ah, we come here to, to see Randall. Randall Terrell.”
The woman looked down from beneath her big white hat. “It’s five thirty. In the morning, sir. Come back later, during visiting hours.”
He plunged his hands into his pockets and jingled the keys and coins. “Well, uh, look, we, uh, we drove straight through and all. To, you know, to get here.”
“Sir. He’s asleep. Everyone’s asleep.”
Betty Ann whimpered.
“My wife here, she’s real worried. She needs to see her boy.”
The nurse raised her voice as if he were hard of hearing. “Surely you want him to get his rest.”
Another nurse stepped from behind the desk. “What’s going on here?”
“These people want to see their son. I told them to come back later.”
“Who’s your son?”
Brother Terrell shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Randall. David Randall Terrell. We drove all night.”
“Oh, the Terrell boy. He’s been asking for his daddy and mama. Go on in, let him see you’re here, but don’t stay long.”
They opened the door to the sound of moaning. Long white curtains hung from the ceiling, dividing the room into three small rectangles. Each area held a bed and hospital machinery that whirred and churned and cast a gray watery light, enough to see that the first two tiny, ancient faces in the beds did not belong to their son. Randall occupied the third bed, the one next to the wall, the one from which the moaning came. They stood over him together, quiet and still, watching his body move and twitch. His arms sprouted tube after tube. Betty Ann’s hand flew to cover her mouth. Brother Terrell whispered in her ear: “Trust God, Betty Ann. We have to trust him.”
The next morning Brother Terrell sat under the crooked preacher’s tent and watched him take the offering. People stood in line and waited to give him money. The man didn’t have to plead or beg. He was glad he didn’t have the hundred dollars God had told him to give the preacher. As the service drew to a close, he stood to leave and a man who sat in front of him turned around.
“Brother Terrell, is that you?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“We came to see you last year in Chattanooga. You healed my wife’s rheumatism. I been wantin’ to thank you.” The man shook his hand and palmed a twenty-dollar bill.
“Brother Bob,” he yelled to a man three rows over. “This here is David Terrell. That tent evangelist that healed Marie.”
Within a few minutes Brother Terrell found himself in the center of a crowd. People reached toward him, grabbed his hands, hugged his neck, and put money in his hands and coat pockets. When they finally let him go, he had a thousand dollars. He counted out five twenty-dollar bills and went to find the preacher.
Later that afternoon, Brother Terrell went to the hospital alone. He stood over Randall’s bed and looked down at his sleeping boy. “Son, son, I need to talk to you.” Randall opened his eyes. “God told me he is going to give you a miracle, but you have to believe. Do you believe?”
“Yes, Daddy. I believe.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, son. I’m taking you outta here.”
He pulled the needles and tubes from Randall’s arms, scooped him up, and walked out of the hospital room. A nurse called to him in the hallway. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking my son.”
“Sir, please. Wait. Let me get a doctor.”
“We don’t have time to wait.” He walked past her and continued down the hall into the waiting room, carrying Randall wrapped in a blanket the same way he had carried him as a newborn home from the hospital. A flock of nurses and a couple of doctors trailed behind them.
One of the doctors grabbed his arm. “I can’t let you take that boy out of here. He’ll die.”
“He’ll die if he stays.”
“Mr. Terrell, we’ll get a court order.”
“You better get it fast, ’cause we’re leaving now.”
He walked out of
“Yes, well, ah, we come here to, to see Randall. Randall Terrell.”
The woman looked down from beneath her big white hat. “It’s five thirty. In the morning, sir. Come back later, during visiting hours.”
He plunged his hands into his pockets and jingled the keys and coins. “Well, uh, look, we, uh, we drove straight through and all. To, you know, to get here.”
“Sir. He’s asleep. Everyone’s asleep.”
Betty Ann whimpered.
“My wife here, she’s real worried. She needs to see her boy.”
The nurse raised her voice as if he were hard of hearing. “Surely you want him to get his rest.”
Another nurse stepped from behind the desk. “What’s going on here?”
“These people want to see their son. I told them to come back later.”
“Who’s your son?”
Brother Terrell shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Randall. David Randall Terrell. We drove all night.”
“Oh, the Terrell boy. He’s been asking for his daddy and mama. Go on in, let him see you’re here, but don’t stay long.”
They opened the door to the sound of moaning. Long white curtains hung from the ceiling, dividing the room into three small rectangles. Each area held a bed and hospital machinery that whirred and churned and cast a gray watery light, enough to see that the first two tiny, ancient faces in the beds did not belong to their son. Randall occupied the third bed, the one next to the wall, the one from which the moaning came. They stood over him together, quiet and still, watching his body move and twitch. His arms sprouted tube after tube. Betty Ann’s hand flew to cover her mouth. Brother Terrell whispered in her ear: “Trust God, Betty Ann. We have to trust him.”
The next morning Brother Terrell sat under the crooked preacher’s tent and watched him take the offering. People stood in line and waited to give him money. The man didn’t have to plead or beg. He was glad he didn’t have the hundred dollars God had told him to give the preacher. As the service drew to a close, he stood to leave and a man who sat in front of him turned around.
“Brother Terrell, is that you?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“We came to see you last year in Chattanooga. You healed my wife’s rheumatism. I been wantin’ to thank you.” The man shook his hand and palmed a twenty-dollar bill.
“Brother Bob,” he yelled to a man three rows over. “This here is David Terrell. That tent evangelist that healed Marie.”
Within a few minutes Brother Terrell found himself in the center of a crowd. People reached toward him, grabbed his hands, hugged his neck, and put money in his hands and coat pockets. When they finally let him go, he had a thousand dollars. He counted out five twenty-dollar bills and went to find the preacher.
Later that afternoon, Brother Terrell went to the hospital alone. He stood over Randall’s bed and looked down at his sleeping boy. “Son, son, I need to talk to you.” Randall opened his eyes. “God told me he is going to give you a miracle, but you have to believe. Do you believe?”
“Yes, Daddy. I believe.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear, son. I’m taking you outta here.”
He pulled the needles and tubes from Randall’s arms, scooped him up, and walked out of the hospital room. A nurse called to him in the hallway. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking my son.”
“Sir, please. Wait. Let me get a doctor.”
“We don’t have time to wait.” He walked past her and continued down the hall into the waiting room, carrying Randall wrapped in a blanket the same way he had carried him as a newborn home from the hospital. A flock of nurses and a couple of doctors trailed behind them.
One of the doctors grabbed his arm. “I can’t let you take that boy out of here. He’ll die.”
“He’ll die if he stays.”
“Mr. Terrell, we’ll get a court order.”
“You better get it fast, ’cause we’re leaving now.”
He walked out of
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